


don't tell me that i've changed because that's not the truth

by dothraki_shieldmaiden



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Fluff and Angst, Humor, M/M, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining, No Underage Sex, Season/Series 12, Witchcraft, absolutely none, seriously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-23
Updated: 2019-01-14
Packaged: 2019-09-25 15:17:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 54,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17123792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dothraki_shieldmaiden/pseuds/dothraki_shieldmaiden
Summary: While out on a hunt, Castiel gets hit with a witch's spell which has some...interesting repercussions for everyone involved."It takes a few moments. Dean can count the seconds between recognition--The confusion to disbelief, to rationalization, to horror--Cas, still thankfully ensconced in the pile of his clothing, looks down at his tiny toddler hands, before looking up at Dean with a face that isn’t going to need shaving for least another ten years, and says, “Dean, I think something’s gone terribly wrong.”"





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is just an idea that I've had kicking around my head for a while. Don't try pinning down a specific time period; it doesn't have one. Just sometime in between Season 11 and Season 12, without the Men of Letters nonsense. 
> 
> I said it in the tags and I'll say it again here--While this is an age-regression fic, there is ABSOLUTELY no underage here. 
> 
> Enjoy!

If Sam’s going to be 100% honest, which he of course always is, he would say that he loves the times when Dean and Cas decide to go on one of their ‘bro-hunting’ trips. 

The bunker is cavernous when he’s alone but it’s a good kind of yawning empty, the kind that begs for him to shout just so he can hear his voice echo back at him. From the time he was born there was always someone around: Dean and his Dad, and then roommates from Stanford, and then Dean again, and then Dean and Cas and--Sometimes, solitude is sheer and utter bliss. 

This is most definitely one of those times. 

He eats whatever he wants to, without Dean’s snotty ‘rabbit-food’ comments, or the smell of his grease choking him, he sits where he wants to, without Cas’ weird staring contests which really only involve a participant of one, since Sam’s never consented to be a partner for them. He gets to watch whatever he wants to on TV and doesn’t have to endure Dean’s attempts at one-liners, or Cas’ inane commentary. Yes, Sam realizes that the guy’s been around since fish decided to have legs, but he would like at least some of the mystery kept in his History Channel documentaries. 

All in all, it’s been a lovely vacation, which is why he’s a little sad to hear the bunker door creak open. “How was the trip?” he calls, voice bouncing from the library, where he’s safely ensconced himself, to the stairwell. Truth be told, Dean and Cas should have been back at least a day ago--it was a simple salt-and-burn job which normally means thirty-six hours tops, but Dean likes stretching his legs while he’s out on the road, will sometimes take a day off to do nothing more interesting than stop by the Carl Sandberg Birthplace Memorial Plaque, so Sam hadn’t really been worried. Had enjoyed that extra helping of roasted chicken though. 

One set of steps echoes down the metal staircase and Sam still isn’t worried, though he does get out of his chair, so maybe, subconsciously, he is worried. 

Dean’s boots clang down the stairwell and while it isn’t unusual for Dean to return alone, it is unexpected. “Cas decide that he had somewhere else to be?” 

The rest of Dean comes into view, looking more exhausted and more defeated than he has any right to, and now the cold fist of worry curls around Sam’s heart, more familiar than he would really like. “What happened?” he asks, more demanding because Dean is alone, and he hasn’t answered him and there’s a bundle in his arms that looks like...that looks like…

Beige, rumpled, with dirt staining the hem. The only other time he’d seen Dean hold that coat had been on one of the worst days in Sam’s life, when his head was splitting apart and he could barely trust the sight of his own hand in front of his face while all the time Lucifer laughed in the background...And Cas, Castiel, their ally, their _friend_ , had been splitting apart at the seams, black goo spilling from the cracks in his body and he’d walked out into that water and disappeared, and Dean had reached down into that tainted water and pulled out that coat and Sam hadn’t seen Dean look that defeated since they’d burned Dad’s body. 

And now that damn coat is in Dean’s arms again and damn it all to hell, it was just supposed to be a simple ghost--

“Where’s Cas?” Sam demands, though he’s horrifically sure that he already knows what the answer will be. 

Dean finally looks at him and even though the lines on his face have deepened to canyon-like proportions, there’s not the yawning gulf of grief which Sam would expect, and this whole thing has reached astronomical levels of _What the hellness_ and Dean finally opens his mouth to speak--

A small fist emerges from the bundle of fabric and Sam chokes on his next words as he realizes that this whole thing has new depths of What the holy hell is happening--

He gathers himself up, rather impressively, he thinks, and calmly, rationally, reasonably, asks, “Dean, what the fuck?”

~*~*~

 

It was supposed to be a simple salt-and-burn job. 

At this rate, Dean could probably kill Sam and not feel that bad about it. 

Sam had come across the job while scanning headlines one morning and Dean, starting to go stir-crazy in the bunker, had perked at the opportunity. “Just ten hours away, pack a bag Sammy!”

Sam’s noncommittal hum was uninspiring. 

“Come on Sam, a chance to get out, to do some honest to god work--tell me that you’re not gonna turn that down!”

“I’m gonna turn it down,” Sam says, taking a sip of his coffee, and he doesn’t even have the decency to act bitchy about it. “Have some work here that I need to get caught up on.”

Dean has a sneaking suspicion that Sam’s definition of work includes reading a bunch of books that have absolutely nothing to do with hunting, listening to a bunch of nerdy-ass podcasts, and watching some crap on TV that has zero nudity, but it’s a little too early in the morning for Bitchface, so he keeps his opinions to himself. Besides, he has another victim he can rope into going with him. 

“Cas!” The dark head turns slowly towards him, blue eyes slitted in disapproval. Cas isn’t a fan of mornings in general, much less early mornings with a lot of noise attached, so he is in a peachy mood. “Pack a bag, or whatever the hell you need. We’re going on a hunt.”

That’s the great thing about Cas, Dean thinks a few hours later as the Impala purrs and eats up the mileage. He might be a surly little thing but he doesn’t tend to drag his heels about every little thing like Sam. Dean says “Pack a bag” and Cas just looks at him suspiciously, like Dean is starting some joke that he’s not aware of, and says “I’m an angel; I have no need for luggage” but he shows up to the damn hunt anyway. Sometimes, it worries Dean, how easily Cas goes along with his whims but he’d be lying if he said that he didn’t love it at the same time. 

Truth be told, Dean thinks, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, it’s probably a good thing that Sam didn’t show up. They’ve all been living in each other’s pockets for a while now, to the point that the “We didn’t die and I like seeing your face as a reminder of that fact” vibe is starting to fade, to be replaced with the “If you keep on leaving your wet towels on the bathroom floor I will have to end your life” vibe. Still, Dean’s not quite ready for the Team Free Will lovefest to end and, he thinks, neither is anyone else, if the way that Cas has been hanging around the bunker lately is any method of judging. 

The Lucifer thing had knocked them all for a loop. In his nightmares, Dean can still see Lucifer twisting Cas’ face into something foreign and evil, something not _Cas_ , while filth pours out of his mouth, and all the while laughing about what it was doing to Dean. And of course Cas would rather have his teeth pulled than say anything, but Dean would be willing to bet that his stint as Lucifer rattled him more than he’s willing to say. And then the whole thing with Mom--Dean grits his teeth before he goes too far down that particular rabbit-hole and just tries to enjoy the simple things--the rumble of Baby underneath him, the wind whipping through the windows and sun warming the leather, the music pounding through the speakers, miles of straight highway ahead of him, and Cas, snarky, grumpy, not quite angel, not quite human, sitting next to him. 

It was supposed to be a simple job, a milk run. Of course, Winchester luck holds, and it turns out to be anything but. 

“It has to be a witch that’s controlling them!” Cas shouts, remarkably calm for someone who’s being thrown through the air. He lands on the hard concrete floor of the warehouse and pops back up again, can't keep a good angel down. “We need to find the hex bags!”

“Yeah?” Dean grunts out, blowing another spirit through with a salt round. “You think?” So he doesn’t share Cas’ calm on hunts. So sue him. 

“Or preferably find the witch and put an end to all of this nonsense.” Yeah, nonsense. Like being thrown across the room by something that would love nothing more than to rip your intestines out is comparable to the internet going out. Damn, but to have Cas’ perspective on life. 

“Why find the witch? Why not just have her come to you?” 

Normally Dean would be a fan of a sexy voice but not in situations where something is trying to kill him. No, in these cases, sexy never means good, as evidenced by the woman draped across the doorframe, looking like a slightly better clothed Victoria’s Secret model. 

“You trying for attention with that get-up sweetheart? Because trust me, you’ve already got mine.” From somewhere behind his right elbow, Dean can practically _feel_ Cas radiating disapproval but come on--The woman’s a blonde, in a dress which leaves very little to his imagination. He’d have to be dead not to notice. 

“Yeah, that’s why I did all of this, was for your attention.” The word is sneered at him and Dean would sense the danger there but then she shifts, and hot damn that is a lot of leg for a witch to be showing--Her fingers curl into a fist and Dean gasps. Cold squeezes around his chest, winds through his veins, and he drops to knees. Can't breathe, can't move, all there is just cold, cold cold--

Just as suddenly, warmth replaces the cold, hot almost to the point of pain, as it sears through every cold spot within him. It feels glorious, feels like what standing on the sun must feel like, and Dean’s eyes start watering, his mouth opens to scream, to plead--

The warmth leaves and Dean lurches forward at its loss. From his peripheral vision, he sees Cas move forward, his palm still glowing, face set in intent, and sometimes Dean gets so caught up in Cas, the nerdy guy who hangs out with them and fails to cook scrambled eggs in the morning that he forgets Castiel, friggin’ Angel of the Lord, who can level entire cities. Moments like this help remind him. 

Their witch suddenly doesn’t look so sure of herself either, as she changes posture from ‘Centerfold’ to ‘Combative’. “An angel?” She glares at Dean like this is his fault, like he was supposed to sign a sheet of paper informing her of their team’s strengths and weaknesses before they started this fight. “All of this to deal with and now a freaking angel?”

“Dean, close your eyes,” Castiel says, eyes glowing an unnatural blue and palm gathering light. Dean hears him, he really does, but he’s transfixed by the sight. 

“This should keep you busy for a while,” the witch says, before her hands twist and she mumbles something that’s definitely not English. Her hands begin to glow too, a weird twist of purple and white light. She pushes towards Cas and Dean’s scream of “Cas LOOK OUT!” is lost in the noise as the world around him is reduced to a white hot flash. 

When Dean comes to, everything is unnaturally quiet. He blinks, wonders when he passed out, and pushes his stiff body off the cold concrete floor. There’s nothing--no witch, no spirits, and, he realizes, with a jolt of horror, no angel. 

“Cas!” He shouts, looking around wildly. “Cas!” Dozens of visions flash through his mind--Cas splattered all over Chuck’s kitchen, Cas disappearing into the water, Cas falling behind in Purgatory, Cas dead on the Reaper’s chair, Cas trapped in a circle of Holy Fire-- “CAS!” he bellows, to have his voice echo back at him mockingly. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he catches movement and he immediately turns, gun pointed. His heart swoops down to his knees and then back up to his throat when he sees what it is--a bundle of tan, white, and black which looks distressingly like-- “Oh no Cas, what the hell, what the hell--” 

The clothes move again and there’s nothing good here, nothing at all. The witch’s last words repeat in Dean’s head-- “This should keep you busy for a while” and he knows that whatever he’s about to find, it’s not going to be good. 

There’s something small hidden within the clothes and Dean paws frantically at them. His hand brushes up against something warm and it feels like skin but it’s too small--His brain doesn’t comprehend what he’s feeling, can’t put a rational thought together, until he finally moves enough clothes and out pops a tiny, a tiny, dark tousled head. 

“Cas?” Dean asks, for lack of a better thing to say. “What the fuck?” The evidence is there in front of his eyes but it’s all so ludicrous that he can’t possibly believe it. 

Blue eyes, god those eyes haven’t changed, still too damn big for his face, narrow at him. “Dean, why are you wasting time--” It would be amusing, if it weren’t so damn terrifying, at how those eyes go from irritation to surprise at the sound of the voice coming out of a throat which is no longer capable of reaching the levels of ‘sandpaper crunched over gravel’. 

Cas coughs, eyes narrowing once more, before he tries speaking. “Dean, I’m not sure--” The voice is still way too freaking low to be natural but...But....Dean breathes deep, to keep himself from hyperventilating, or bursting into laughter. He’s not sure which would be worse. 

Cas’ eyes are wide now, all pretense at calm vanished as he looks at Dean. “What, what…?” For the first time he seems to notice that his shoulders are bare and he reaches up to touch the skin, wonderingly, like he’s never touched it before. Then he looks down at his hand. 

It takes a few moments. Dean can count the seconds between recognition--The confusion to disbelief, to rationalization, to horror-- 

Cas, still thankfully ensconced in the pile of his clothing, looks down at his tiny toddler hands, before looking up at Dean with a face that isn’t going to need shaving for least another ten years, and says, “Dean, I think something’s gone terribly wrong.”


	2. hands always be busy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back at the bunker, things are not simple, but then again, when are they ever?

Needless to say, the ride back to Lebanon and the first moments inside the bunker are not pleasant. 

“I don’t need to be swaddled like a child; this is extremely uncomfortable,” Cas complains from his seat in the Impala. 

“Yeah you do,” Dean says, and leaves it at that. It’s bad enough that Cas has suddenly reverted back to Sesame Street size, worse that Cas feels that since his clothes no longer fit they’re optional. Right now, Dean has him wrapped like a tiny, angry burrito, with only his right arm and head sticking out. 

Cas chooses to glare at him, the expression ridiculously severe on his five-year old face. Dean would feel worried, if it wasn’t all so ludicrous. 

“Look, we’ll get you back to the bunker and Sam will know what to do.”

Sam does not know what to do. 

“What the hell man, this was supposed to be an easy job, something to just have fun with and now you bring…” Sam gestures helplessly towards the bundle in Dean’s arms. “You bring this home?”

“I do still have a name,” Castiel objects, turning the full force of the toddler death stare on Sam. “And I’m perfectly capable of standing on my own, thank you.” He starts to squirm in Dean’s arms and Dean, out of reflex, tightens his grip. 

“Just stay put, would you?” he snaps. He doesn’t want to examine the tiny voice which screams at him to hold Cas as tight as he can, to not let go for anything, come hell or high water. It’s just because Cas is now kindergarten size, he tells himself. 

Castiel, mature angel that he is, responds by attempting to kick Dean’s stomach. The coat wrapped around his body hampers the attempt, but he does manage to get a tiny foot somewhere in the region of Dean’s solar plexus. “Son of a bitch!” Dean grunts, but maintains his hold on all forty pounds of angelic wrath. “Would you stop!”

“I’m not a child!” Cas protests, all evidence to the contrary, and that’s it. Dean starts to laugh, helplessly, hysterically. It’s not the best response--Sam looks at him like he’s lost his marbles and Cas retaliates by attempting a barrel roll. His tiny fist flails around Dean’s face and Dean still can’t stop laughing. He thinks that he might never stop. “Dean, this is ridiculous, put me down--”

“Dean, maybe you should just put him down--” Sam starts, as Cas starts to buck. All the laughter goes out of Dean as his grip falters. 

“Stop it, damn it Cas, stop it right the hell now!” Dean roars. The sound is enough to startle Sam and Cas both into silence and stillness and Dean takes the opportunity to reassert his grip around Cas’ waist. “Now look.” He turns Cas around so that the angel can balefully stare at him, though the effect is muted by the fact that Cas is a fucking _TODDLER_. “We’re going to figure this out and get you back to normal. In the meantime--” Cas tries a valiant attempt to kick once more and Dean violates every child rearing book ever written and probably some child abuse laws as well by giving him a sharp shake that clacks Cas’ teeth together. “In the meantime,” Dean continues, “you are going to _settle_ and realize that you don’t have a big boy body anymore, all right?”

Cas goes abruptly limp in his arms, his brow still furrowed in a very adult look of anger and distress. “Now if I put you down are you going to do anything stupid?”

Cas glares at him, weighing his options. Dean’s used to the look and knows enough to wait it out. Cas might be an angel but Dean had Sam for a younger brother and his patience with bratty kids is nothing to be laughed at. Dean waits, eyebrow raised, and Cas finally, begrudgingly, bites out an ungrateful, “No.”

“Good.” Dean carefully sets Cas down on the table, aware of the fact that his legs are still tangled up in the coat. “Now, first things first--”

“I think that your library might have an entire section on transformations,” Cas starts, rolling towards the edge of the table. 

“Oh Jesus--What the fuck Cas? Remember when I said not to do anything stupid? This was what I was talking about!” Dean snatches a fold in the fabric and yanks Cas back to the center of the table. “What if you’d fallen? Kids have soft heads, you can’t go banging them into shit!”

“Dean, I know that it might be difficult for you to understand,” and that’s the sarcastic angel that he knows and lov--appreciates, “but despite my current appearance, I am not a child! Besides, even if my vessel gets hurt it’s not as though my true essence will be harmed--”

“Look Cas, just--just chill, all right?” Dean swallows back the thousand and one retorts which want to spring out of his mouth. Stuff like how come Cas can’t give a damn about himself for just once, like how, in the end, when Cas gets hurt it’s always him which ends up suffering, like how Cas can’t ever trust him for just one goddamned second-- “I told you, we’re going to get this taken care of. But first--we’ve got to get you some new clothes man.”

“Oh god,” Sam finally decides to weigh in, his face screwed up in what looks like indigestion but is more than likely helpless, horrific, humor, “ _Baby in a trenchcoat_.” 

All three of them react differently--Sam keeps his stupid, constipated look on his face, while a burble of sick humor twists up from Dean's stomach and manifests itself as a bark of laughter, and Cas tops them all by blowing out all the lamps in the library. 

~*~*~

Sam draws the short straw, or possibly the better straw (depending on how you look at spending time with a toddler angel), and goes shopping for a new wardrobe. Dean gets to stay with Cas, who looks less than pleased by the prospect. Given the lack of anything else to do, Dean decides to address the problem straight on. 

“Do you remember anything that she said?” Cas looks up from where he’s perusing the book in front of him, a dusty tome which is almost as big as him. “The witch, when she was putting the whammy on you,” Dean clarifies. “Do you remember any specific words?” 

On the opposite end of the table, Cas stares at him through the curtain of his fringe. _We’re really going to have to get that cut_ , Dean thinks absently. “I was too busy trying to end her, so no, I didn’t really pay attention to what she was saying. An action which I regret heavily.”

“All right, well, there’s got to be something in this library, so....” Dean gestures to the pile of books on the table. “Research. Carry on. I, however, need a drink.” He needs a whole damn bottle and more besides, but he’ll settle for a drink. 

The walk to the kitchen gives him a chance to settle himself down. It bothers him, more than he’ll ever let either Cas or Sam know, seeing Cas like this. It’s bad enough that his friend, the badass angel, has been reduced to Episode One Anakin status, worse when you have decidedly adult feelings about said friend. 

He’d had plans after the hunt. What they would have done, he’s not sure, but he’d like to think that it would involve moving past this weird holding minus the holding pattern that he and Cas have worked themselves into. Maybe some star-gazing--Cas can tell him about when each star was formed, which is always interesting, if sometimes way more informative than Dean wants--some drinking, maybe something else--And now he has a five-year old sitting on his library table, with his friend’s consciousness trapped inside. 

“Yeah, someday we’re all going to laugh about this,” Dean mutters, throwing back two shots in quick succession. 

He stays in the kitchen maybe longer than he intends, so that when he emerges he has to concentrate harder than he normally does to put one foot smoothly in front of the other. Not only that but Sam is back from his trip to WalMart, crappy plastic bags in tow. 

“I guessed on the sizes for most of these but I kept the receipts so…” Sam dumps the bags on the table and an assortment of shirts, pants, and something that looks horrifically like child’s underwear comes tumbling out. “Yeah, word to the wise,” Sam says, noting where Dean’s eyes have gone, “next time we buy children’s clothing, it would be a good idea to bring the child with us.”

“Not a child,” Castiel grunts, moving towards the edge of the table. Dean moves towards him but Cas drops fairly gracefully from the table to the seat of a chair, the coat clutched around his tiny body. He makes it from the chair to the floor with little incident, though once he’s on the floor, he looks lost, head tilted up and big blue eyes wide in his face. For all the shit he gives Cas about being short, the guy is six feet tall and just about eye level with him. Now, Cas has a front row view to his and Sam’s knees and Dean would fancy that the quality of the scenery has gone down some. 

“It appears ah, that I can’t…” Cas throws a hand up ineffectually towards the table and comes well short of reaching the clothes on the table. He makes eye contact with Dean and something in Dean’s chest twists at the supplication on his face. To go from leading armies and smiting gods to having to ask for help getting clothes off the table? 

“Sam, why don’t you grab those and take them back to Cas’ room? Cas and I will be along in a second.”

It’s a long second because for some reason, Dean forgot that Cas’ legs are now the size of his forearm and that it takes about five steps from Cas to equal one of his. He tries to slow his steps without making it too obvious and charitably bites back his smart remark about how Cas has adopted the weird waddle that all kids have whenever they try walking quickly. After about three minutes of snail’s pace, Dean also fights the urge to just pick Cas up and carry him there for expediency’s sake. 

“Dean, I know my way around the bunker. I’m sure you have other things you need to be doing.” 

“No, not really.” It’s only after an unhappy second passes that Dean thinks that maybe Cas was trying to get him to leave so that he wouldn’t have a witness. But it’s too late now and besides, Dean can’t get rid of the urge to protect, to save, to shield Cas from anything that could hurt. 

By the time they reach Cas’ bedroom, all the clothes are separated out into pants, shirts, and other sundries. Sam even has everything laid out at the edge of the bed, a perfect height for Cas’ arms to grab. “All right, I just figure...try everything out and we’ll see what fits. You can start with this.” He shoves a tiny suit towards Cas. “I figured, for old time’s sake, you know?”

Unsurprisingly, the suit is not a success. 

“Oh for the love of...Come on Sam, he looks like he’s at his damn First Communion!” 

Cas, dressed in his kid’s suit, complete with a clip-on tie, scowls at him. Dean wonders if he should tell him that his face is going to stick like that if he keeps it up. 

Sam, more indignant than he really should be, also scowls at him. “I just thought something to ease the, the…you know.” He gestures helplessly towards Cas. “I looked for a coat but…”

“Let me guess. They don’t make trenchcoats in fun-size?”

Cas growls, a sound more suited for an adult angel throat, rather than a child’s voice. “Thank you for all your help. Sam, I appreciate you getting all of these for me. I’ll let you know what works.” 

Before Dean can say anything else, Cas flicks his fingers at the door and it slams shut. A second later, the lock clicks and both Dean and Sam are left out in the hallway. Dean rattles the doorknob, just to check, but no, it looks like Cas well and truly locked them out. 

“Oh come on Cas!” Dean rattles the doorknob again, for emphasis. “Mojo locking us out? Don’t have a temper tantrum!”

“Dean.” Sam’s voice is quiet. “Leave him alone, all right? It’s been a stressful day for him.”

“For him?” 

Sam gives him Bitchface #16, which is a worrisome mixture of compassion and irritation. “Just...give him some time. Leave him alone and he’ll come out.”

***

The problem is, of course, that if you don’t need to eat, drink, or shower, you can stay in your room almost indefinitely. 

It takes Cas a whole day to emerge and by the time he does, Dean is crawling up the walls. Sam’s sent him so many long-suffering looks and sighs that they’ve started to lose their potency and Dean is one hour away from kicking the door down, Cas’ wishes be damned. Finally, Dean slams down the latest in a revolving door of dusty tomes and rubs his fingers into his eyes. 

“Dean.”

He starts at the sound. He’ll never get used to his name being said by that voice, so close and yet so far away from what he really wants. 

Relief bursts in him, hot and bright. Dean smothers it underneath anger, also hot and bright, as he says, “You decided to come and join the adults?”

Cas’ face, which had been preparing to break into a smile--not a real smile but a Cas smile, where the expression is held within the space of possibility more than the face itself--shuts down. His eyes shutter and his mouth thins into an unbreakable line, making him the grimmest kindergartener of all. 

“I’ve been reviewing what I know about transformation spells and so far I can’t decipher anything that would help with undoing the witch’s work. I think that it would be best if I tried to hunt her down and try to seize her spellbook.”

Dean’s chest twists--Leaving, Cas is always _leaving_ him--and he concentrates on the more relevant points. “You? Going out on a hunt?” Cas looks at him and while his face might have lost about thirty years, there’s no mistaking that jut of the jaw and narrowing of his eyes. Stubborn bastard. “Yeah, I hate to break this to you Short Stack but but uh...You’re not going anywhere.”

Cas draws himself up and if it weren’t sad it might be hilarious. “Dean, you have no right or ability to keep me here--”

“Cas, how are you going to drive the damn truck? Sit on a stack of phonebooks? Come on man, think about this! Now, me and Sam, we’re willing to do whatever it takes to help you but work with us!”

Castiel frowns, his fists clenching by his sides. “I can’t stay and do nothing.”

Dean’s jaw clenches because he already knows that the answer isn’t held in this library. Call him superstitious but he believes that if you’re going to find the answer to a problem you find it in the first few hours, not in the thirty-fourth. He knows that they’re going to have to leave the bunker, go out into the world to find the answer but just for now, he wants to keep his family safe under one roof. 

“Just...we’ll keep looking all right? If we don’t find anything then we’ll start talking about other options but...Just for…”

His voice trails off but Cas, who is kinder than anyone ever gives him credit for, just nods. 

“We’ll keep looking.”


	3. i get by

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After running into several dead ends, Sam suggests looking for an outside source.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, the beginning of a sort of plot!

In Castiel’s estimation, this is an unsatisfactory situation. 

Dean would summarize it better perhaps. If he tries, Castiel can hear his gruff voice: _This is a goddamned bitch of an unsatisfactory situation_. 

In many instances, Dean’s words are not enough but in case, Castiel thinks that they would fit perfectly. What he finds himself in now is a goddamned bitch of an unsatisfactory situation. 

Statistically, he is trapped in the body of a human child, approximately four years, three months, and five days. Dean continues to call him a kindergartner but Castiel believes that this is due to a lack of understanding on childhood development rather than any intentional insult. He estimates his weight at thirty-eight pounds and height at three and a half feet.

The changes do not please him. While he keeps reminding the Winchesters that the outward appearance of his vessel does not determine his power or usefulness, he cannot deny that there is a definite imbalance in his newest form. Jimmy Novak’s body, poor soul, was that of a man in his prime, and Castiel can’t help thinking that it was a much better fit for him, if for no other reason than he could reach the kitchen counter. 

One more day has passed and still they are no closer to an answer. Every fiber of Castiel’s being itches to be gone but he waits and he abides. He would not admit it, but Dean had a point with his reasoning. When Castiel slid into the driver’s seat of his truck his legs dangled off the edge of the seat. After that, it was comedy of errors: if he could see out of the windshield then he could not reach the pedals. If he moved so that his feet could reach the pedals then he was blind, reaching above his head to grip the steering wheel. So he waits, humiliation clogging thick in his throat whenever he catches Sam or Dean’s eyes looking on him with pity. 

He hasn’t mentioned the stranger points of his condition to either of them yet. 

“Cas, the hell are you going for?”

Castiel’s shoulders hunch, a reaction which seems to be wholly out of his control. Dean seems to have this power over his body, wherein the man speaks and Castiel suddenly wants to crawl into the nearest hole he can find. Since there is no hole available, he continues his task. 

“I am attempting to create sustenance for this body,” he grunts, fingers finally managing to grab onto the bread bag. The refrigerator proves an easier task to tackle, as most of what he wants is conveniently stored in the door pockets. 

“Create sustenance--Cas, are you making a sandwich?” 

“I’d think that was fairly obvious.” 

Dean’s confusion hangs between them as Castiel fishes out a package of cold cuts. There’s a faint rank smell coming from the meat but he judges it not foul enough to cause him any distress. Dean, perhaps not much, but seeing as Dean has been a thorn in his side these past few days, Castiel doesn’t feel obligated to tell him about the spoiling foods in his kitchen. 

“Cas, what’s--” Castiel leaves before Dean can finish his sentence, wanting to be miles away from this conversation. 

Unfortunately, his legs are no longer equipped to make quick escapes and Dean swiftly overtakes him. “It’s just weird, right? When was the last time you made yourself a sandwich?”

What giant made the stairs within the bunker, Castiel wonders as he carefully scales the steps, lifting his legs high with one hand on the wall for balance. Did no one take into account the plight of human children? “I’m not aware,” he answers once he’s made it into the war room. “I didn’t mark the occasion on my calendar.”

“Real cute,” Dean says in the tone indicating sarcasm. “But look.” Two large steps place Dean in front of Castiel and a Winchester is an unmovable object. “I haven’t really asked yet, but are you, ah…” Dean scrubs the back of his neck, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he smiles, or perhaps grimaces. Sometimes it’s difficult to tell. “Are you all right?”

Castiel would rather swallow broken glass than have this conversation with Dean. “I’m fine,” he bites out, wishing for Jimmy’s body and Jimmy’s stare, and Jimmy’s ability to walk away quickly from uncomfortable conversations. 

He doesn’t want Dean’s concern and he certainly doesn’t want Dean’s pity. He wants to be restored, as swiftly as possible, so that they can forget this humiliating experience and go on with their lives. He wants Dean to look at him as an equal again, not as something frail and fragile which needs his particular brand of protection. He’s tired of being another person who needs saving, dragged along like so much baggage. 

He can’t pick up Dean’s exact words but he guesses that they must be unkind in nature. This is fine because he is also feeling unkind. 

Sam is already at the table, waiting for them. “Any news on how to fix Kindergarten Cop?” Castiel has to remind himself that Dean doesn’t mean to be deliberately cruel but the words still dig into someplace raw and tender inside him. 

Sam at least has to the decency to shoot Dean A Look. His kindness is ultimately rooted in pity but he tries and Castiel is viscerally glad for the younger Winchester. “No. But I had an idea.” 

Castiel fights the urge to roll his eyes and instead takes a bite of his sandwich. The flavors burst onto his tongue, mustard dribbling out of the corner of his mouth as he opens his mouth to take another bite. 

He can feel Dean’s eyes on him but he can’t care, not when the sandwich is soothing the gnawing in his stomach. From his days of being human, he finally places a need to both the need and its cure: hunger and fulfillment. 

“I said,” Sam interrupts with a delicate cough, “I had an idea.”

“Well, I’m all ears.” Dean smiles magnanimously, hands palm up in invitation. Castiel knows from experience that when Dean looks this accommodating is when he is at his most stubborn. 

“We’re not getting anywhere with the lore, so what if we ask another source?” 

“Great idea!” Dean gestures, his arms wide, his smile wide, and Castiel wants to tell him that just because he is frustrated does not mean that he has to be hurtful. “You find a magical Siri and I will be more than willing to direct any and all questions to her.”

Sam’s jaw twitches in what Castiel easily identifies as irritation. “Actually, I was thinking an actual witch.”

It takes a moment for Dean to put the pieces together.

“No. No. Sam, you cannot be thinking this.”

Sam shrugs, his arms thrown out in helplessness. “What other choice do we have Dean? There’s nothing in here and we don’t have any other sources to tap! She’s helped us before, maybe she’ll be willing to help us again.”

“Yeah, because see, what it sounds like to me is that you’re asking Rowena into our lives and pointing her at Tiny Tim!”

Sam’s jaw does a full clench. Castiel can sympathize. 

“Dean.” Sam speaks slowly, enunciating every word. “Rowena is the best shot that we have at starting to figure out what is causing this.”

Castiel had come to this decision approximately forty-eight hours ago. It is exhausting sometimes, waiting for humans. 

Rowena is an incredibly powerful witch, and one of the few on the continent that does not actively want him or Sam and Dean dead. As far as allies go, she is not one to be thrown away and in this situation _(goddamned unsatisfactory bitch of a situation)_ she is the best choice. 

Castiel would have suggested this himself, if he hadn’t known that Dean would shut down, even more so than he is currently. No, Sam had to be the one to suggest it because, much as it hurts, Castiel recognizes that Dean trusts Sam’s judgement more than he trusts his. It hurts, to know that Dean doesn’t trust him; hurts worse to recognize that trust was a door which Castiel himself had slammed closed on more than one occasion. 

He wants more than anything to leave. Castiel also wants, with a vicious desire that feels like pain, to stay forever and never leave. 

With a start, he returns to the brothers’ fight, to find that they are winding down their elaborate ritual of insults, sniping, and passive-aggressive concern. The slips have been happening to him, more and more often as the days drag on. Little snippets of time, seconds, maybe minutes, are missing from his memory. Once, it happened when Dean was talking to him--One second Dean was asking him to switch books because he couldn’t read Aramaic and then, within the space of a blink, Dean was complaining about abundant commercial breaks during sporting broadcasts. Not even Dean could switch topics that quickly, so Castiel was forced to conclude that the fault must be in his perception. Specifically, his perception of time passing. More specifically, the fact that there are moments, happening with more and more frequency, where he is simply _gone_. 

He hasn’t told Dean yet. Probably, that is another thing which he will have done wrong but he cannot bear to see more worry in Dean’s eyes. 

He cannot bear to be one more burden on an already faltering man.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

Dean hates this idea. 

Hates, hates, hates it. 

On a good day, asking for help makes his dinner curdle in his stomach. Asking Rowena for help makes him want to hurl. But asking Rowena for help and pointing her straight at a vulnerable Cas? His stomach wants to crawl out his damn abdomen and dance the tarantella. 

He’s voiced some of these thoughts to Sam, mostly the “Rowena is a manipulative bitch and we can’t trust her” ones, all to no avail. Once Sam decides on something he is damned hard to sway and Gigantor had dug his heels in pretty deep on this one. Cas had been typically silent about possible life-saving/life-ending measures and so Dean was left as the sole voice of reason in a bunker going increasingly insane.

Cas has taken to disappearing for long periods at a time and Dean can’t determine whether the little fucker is making himself invisible or taking advantage of the myriad of tiny spaces in the bunker and playing an undeclared game of hide and seek. Either way, it’s yet another thing on the long, long list of things that he hates, and his mood is getting darker by the second. 

“Cas!” he bellows, letting his voice loose. He listens to it echo through the hallways, bouncing off tile and metal. No way that Cas missed that. 

He wants to have Cas in sight--it’s not a weird control thing, it’s just that Cas is tiny now and bad things happen to small people. Not to mention that Cas has been acting weird lately--well, weirder than usual. Besides his disappearing act, there’s also the fact that he’s eating now, sandwiches and the occasional soup when Sam makes it. Add both of those to the fact that Cas is spacier than usual and Dean just wants to kill something. 

Maybe the witch currently knocking on the door. 

“Still think that this is a bad idea,” he says, just to have his objection on the record one last time. Out of habit, his hand skates over the gun tucked into the back of his jeans. Out the corner of his eye, he catches Cas walking towards him, but doesn’t see from where Cas emerged. Damn. 

“Yes, thank you.” If Sam rolls his eyes any more then they’ll probably fall out of his damn skull. 

Dean listens to the sounds of Sam thundering up the stairs and opening the door before he looks down at Cas. “Excited about turning into a real boy again?” 

“I have no idea why you’re referring to the story of a wooden puppet’s journey through sin in order to become human. That has no bearing on the situation at all.”

“You know what, just...never mind.” Two sets of footsteps echo down the stairs and Dean runs his thumb over the butt of his gun once more, just for reassurance. That’s all he has time for before Rowena breezes into the room. 

“What seems to be the trouble?” Dean’s always wondered if that accent’s fake. “Sam was very mysterious over the phone--” Her voice trails off when her eyes move to the right and down from Dean. “What’s this?” 

“This is what we needed to talk to you about,” Sam starts, obviously willing to take point on this interaction. “We needed help--”

“Yes, yes, you always need help, you two couldn’t find your way out of a wet paper bag without help, but you didn’t mention anything about this.” Rowena stalks closer, her eyes gleaming in a way that Dean hates. In one smooth motion she drops into a crouch, putting her on eye level with Cas. 

“And aren’t you a handsome thing?” she coos in a voice which sets Dean’s teeth on edge. Beside him, Cas’ fists clench and his lip curls. Dean just knows that he’s holding himself back from some good old-fashioned smiting. He searches for a sneaky way to tell Cas not to hold back and just go with the feeling. 

“Rowena, that’s--”

“Castiel, I know.” She gives Sam a look that plainly says how stupid she thinks he is, before turning her attention back to Cas. “But look at what’s happened to you.” Before anyone has a chance to stop her, her hand lands on the top of Cas’ head and ruffles his hair. 

Dean’s lips lift in a snarl--that’s _HIS_ job (despite the fact that he’s never done it, he was holding it in reserve)--but Cas is faster and swats Rowena’s hand away. The impact of his hand is small, a tiny pop, but it does get the impression across. Rowena brings her hands back to her own personal space.

“Yeah, that’s what we were hoping you could help us with.” Dean is glad that Sam is taking the communication aspect of this one; he’s non-verbal at this point.

“It was a transformation spell; one that I’m not familiar with. I didn’t recognize the incantation but there was a purple light.” Cas’ voice is still grave but with an undercurrent of anger humming through it. 

“Well, that doesn’t give me much to go on but we’ll work with what we’ve got.” Rowena stands up, pops her neck and smiles. Dean 100% does not trust that smile. “But I can’t spend my whole day that close to ground. Up you go dear!” 

Without any further ado, she sweeps Cas off the ground, her hands underneath his arms. A growl escapes Dean and even Sam reaches out to stop her but she is a relentless menace. Cas, meanwhile, goes through a series of emotions. At first his eyes are wide with polite horror, like he can’t believe that someone would ever be this presumptuous, then, once it kicks in what’s happening, his young face twists in rage. His feet lash out and he beats his hands against Rowena’s arms but she just laughs. 

“Oh, Fergus was just the same as you, little spitfire!” And that’s an image that Dean never wanted, baby Crowley getting carried around. 

“I refuse to be treated in this manner--” Cas says, and if he were saying that in his regular voice then it would be intimidating and yeah, probably a little attractive, but his voice is thin and reedy and he sounds, horrifyingly enough, like a child in a grocery store about ready to break down and start bawling. 

“Oh dearie, don’t get your knickers in a twist.” Rowena plops Cas on top of the table and starts to examine him from various angles. Cas tries to twist to keep her in his sights but he over balances and falls. 

Dean can’t take this anymore. “Will you stop?” he snaps, averting his eyes from the sight of Cas picking himself back up and gathering the shreds of his tattered dignity around him once more. 

Rowena ticks an unimpressed eyebrow at him. “I know that the finer points of...well anything really, might be lost on you, but this is intricate witchcraft. There’s a lot of threads here and I need to get a good look at all of them before I can even start to work. Now if you don’t mind--” She flicks two fingers and chairs come flying. Dean and Sam’s legs are knocked out from underneath them and they land in the plush seats. “Take a seat and let the witch work.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, please note that any abuse of Rowena is how Dean sees her, not how I see her.


	4. do our best to recreate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Exposition and a memory.

~*~*~*~

Being poked and prodded by a 300 year old witch is not Castiel’s preferred way to spend an afternoon. 

Rowena is as non-invasive as it’s possible to be while using magic to slither through every crack of a person’s being. Castiel fights the urge to twist and squirm as tendrils of her magic slip underneath his skin, brush over his Grace, curl around his fingertips. It feels like when he was a human and accidentally walked through a series of spiderwebs. The same unpleasant sensations cling to him and he longs for nothing more than to brush everything away. 

Still, he stands and bears it, because this is the best way to find an end to this farce. With any luck, Rowena can find the frayed threads of the spell and untangle them. Castiel’s looked himself but between his unfamiliarity with this particular type of witchcraft and his erratic swings of control--No, it’s better that Rowena is here now. 

Dean and Sam stay fixated on the process for the first thirty minutes but after an hour passes, they lose interest. Dean stays in the room, presumably reading a book but the pages don’t turn nearly as often as they would if he were actually reading. The weight of Dean’s eyes lands on Castiel’s body more often than not and each time the spiderweb sensation only increases. 

After what seems like an eternity but what Castiel knows is only two hours and eighteen minutes, Rowena straightens. She stretches like a luxuriant cat, a pleased little smile darting around her lips. After a minute, she seems to remember that she has an audience and she slits open her eyes to meet Castiel’s. 

“Sorry dearie,” she coos, reaching out to chuck Castiel underneath the chin. He jerks his head away and resists the urge to snap his teeth shut on her finger. “Forgot you were there for a second.”

“Cut the crap Rowena.” Dean stands, somehow managing to put menace into that simple gesture. Castiel misses those days, when his mere presence in a room was enough to make demons tremble and angels take notice. 

Rowena rolls her eyes. “Never one for having any fun, are you?”

“Sure, I like Mai Tais and long walks on the beach the same as any other person. But we brought you in to do a job and right now it looks real damn unfinished.” 

“Well.” Rowena’s eyes flick to Castiel and then back to Dean. Sam enters the room, no doubt drawn by the conversation. “There’s good news and bad news.”

Castiel, who has never expected anything other than terrible news, is not bothered by her proclamation. The Winchesters, however, react poorly.

“Damn it, Rowena, can you fix this or not?” 

Dean’s temper, never a sedate beast at the best of times, is close to boiling over. Castiel wishes that there was something he could do to soothe it. He’s wished that for years. 

“Well, that’s where the good and bad news comes in…” Dean’s expression moves from angry to homicidal and Rowena clears her throat as her shoulders square. 

“Can the spell be undone?” For Castiel, this is the most relevant question. If the spell cannot be undone then nothing else matters. If the spell can be undone then all this will hopefully turn into a foul memory. 

“Well…technically, yes. That’s the good news.” 

Sam speaks before Dean has a chance to. “So what’s the bad news?”

Castiel knows before she says it. “She can’t undo it. Or won’t,” he adds, frowning up at Rowena. 

Her eyes tick towards him, mouth pursed in annoyance at having her moment stolen. “I can’t seem to unravel this little gem of a spell, no.” 

“If it’s a transformation spell, then I think that the reversal would be simple.” Castiel doesn’t know much about witchcraft, but he does know this. 

“That’s the thing, it’s not a transformation spell. It’s so much more than that.” He stares back at her, non-comprehending, until she rolls her eyes and sighs in impatience. “Here, let me demonstrate.”

Rowena claps her hands and instantly, purple light engulfs Castiel. He cannot stop the flinch which rocks his body but when no pain is forthcoming, he opens his eyes. 

Bright purple lines circle his body, like thin ropes. Castiel flexes his fingers, simultaneously intrigued and horrified by how the ropes move along with him. They give him no pain as he wiggles his fingers. It’s an intriguing piece of spellwork but Castiel can now see a weakness: if the threads are made visible then they can be cut. It’s just a matter of choosing where to break. 

He concentrates on the bands encircling his left hand, focusing all of his energy and Grace on breaking the rope. For a second he thinks it’s working, as the purple light dims. Encouraged, Castiel pours more Grace into the effort and then--

Pain whips through his body, burrowing into the core of his Grace before it explodes outward. Bright light bursts behind his eyelids and he thinks that his skull might shatter--Castiel thinks that he might cry out but the sound is lost behind the relentless scream of power humming through his body. He just wants this to be over, wants it to _stop_ \--

Large hands grab him before he has a chance to hit the floor. 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

Everything hurts. 

He is lying on a soft surface and covered by a fuzzy blanket but those comforts don’t take away from the dull ache running throughout his body. Castiel feels as though his small body has been pummeled to within an inch of its life. One small tap might kill him. 

“Hey Sleeping Beauty, come on.” 

Reluctantly, Castiel opens his eyes. Three blurry figures hover over him. One hard blink resolves them into Dean, Sam, and Rowena, all with varying looks of concern on their faces. “You feeling alright?” Sam asks, a hesitant smile creeping across his face. 

“I’m fine,” Castiel answers without pausing to consider the veracity of the claim. He tries to push himself up, only for Dean to push him back down. 

“Just stay down.” Castiel struggles but it’s laughably easy for Dean to keep him down with one broad hand splayed across his chest. 

“Just listen to him sweetie, you gave us quite a scare,” Rowena trills. Castiel narrows his eyes, doubtful of the level of fright she had over his well-being. 

“I didn’t mean to cause anyone any distress.” Perhaps if he’s reasonable they will respond by becoming more logical in their thinking. They are wasting valuable time, time which Castiel is afraid that he does not have. 

“Yeah well, you failed.” No doubt Dean can feel the quick expansion of Castiel’s chest underneath his relentless hand as Castiel sucks in a quick, hurt breath but sometimes Dean is so unfair. It’s not as though Castiel intends to make himself a nuisance. He has only ever tried to help but no matter what decisions he makes, they always tend to end poorly and make Dean think the worst of him. 

Castiel never thought that he would be grateful towards Rowena but the emotion floods through him as she softly clears her throat. “Anyway,” she continues, as the attention in the room turns towards her, “that was going to be part of the bad news. Any attempt to interfere with the spell will cause that sort of reaction.” 

“This isn’t any kind of transformation spell that I’ve ever seen before.”

Rowena looks at him. Castiel inwardly recoils from the expression in her eyes. Instead of the playful malice which he would expect there’s something there which looks damnably similar to pity. 

“It’s not a transformation spell. Think of it more like a binding spell.”

“A binding spell? But he can still use all of his powers so…”

Rowena, unhappy with having her stage stolen, tuts at Sam. “For the moment. We’ll get there; don’t interrupt. The spell’s not working specifically on his powers, it’s more compressing him?” A questioning eyebrow ticks up before she continues. “The spell is what pushed him into this form to begin with and it’s what’s keeping him here.” Castiel feels as though he should protest at being talked about like he’s not two feet away from her but Rowena is giving him valuable information so he holds his tongue for the moment. 

“Like I said, any attempt to tamper with the spell is going leave your boy like, well, this.” Rowena gestures to Castiel. “Not to mention…” She moves her eyes from Sam to Dean and then back to Castiel. “It’s going to get worse.”

“Worse--what do you mean worse? How could it possibly get worse?”

Castiel already knows. He lets Rowena say it. To her credit, she at least sounds a little empathetic. 

“The spell’s still working, albeit a little slower than I would expect. I would guess that if you hadn’t been an angel you would probably already be dead. But you’re going to lose more power and more strength the longer this goes on.” She looks at him, nods briefly. “But you probably know that already darling. After all, you’ve already started sliding.”

Dean’s eyes flicker back and forth between Castiel and Rowena. “What does she mean? Cas, what’s she talking about?”

“At first it was nothing more than a second here or there. You probably thought that you could ignore it. But then it turned into minutes slipping away.” Rowena’s eyes flick to Dean, who wears confusion like an ill-fitting mask. “Time sweetheart. He’s losing minutes right now and soon it will be hours. After that, it will be days.”

Castiel swallows and this time when he tries to sit up, Dean’s hand falls away. 

“It’s the spell, working its hooks deeper into you. It’s smothering you, making you--”

“Mortal,” Castiel finishes, horror bolting through his veins. “A human child.”

Castiel wasn’t aware that Rowena could appear sympathetic. “If you’re lucky. There are two end results for this. One, the spell suppresses all your angel-bits to nothing and you end up as this permanently, probably without your memories.”

“What’s the second?” A current of danger runs through Dean’s voice. If he had his full powers then Castiel would be able to hear the rush of his blood, the pump of his heart, the creak of his knuckles as he clenches his fist. But Dean is so far away from him now and he can only rely on what he can see. 

“The second, and don’t kill the messenger now,” Rowena chides, no doubt catching a glimpse of the look in Dean’s eyes, “is that, well, his angel-bits don’t get squeezed into oblivion.”

“Well that’s...that’s good right? Not losing your Grace?” Sam at least has the decency to act like Castiel is still a sentient being, capable of answering questions. 

And he can answer this one. “Not really. From what I guess, if this spell follows the second course of action, I won’t lose my Grace. But it will ah, be unable to be housed in my form, at least in its current state. The longer the spell lingers, the weaker the vessel will become until…”

Rowena curls her hands into loose fists before pushing out with her fingers. A huff of breath escapes her-- _Boom_. It’s a visceral representation and Castiel’s stomach lurches. 

“Well that….That is just dandy.” Dean starts pacing around the room, his fingers raking through his short hair. “And when were you planning on telling us any of this?” He rounds on Castiel, his eyes wide with accusation. “When were you going to tell us that you were losing time for fuck’s sake? Don’t you think that’s something that we should know?” 

Castiel pushes himself into the plush cushions of the couch, wishes that he could disappear into them. “It...it didn’t seem relevant at the time,” he tries, already knowing as the words come out that it’s an inadequate response. 

Dean nods. A false brittle smile spreads across his face as he stares at Castiel. “Didn’t seem relevant. Yeah. Of course not. Just when it’s your fucking life on the line, it didn’t seem relevant.” His arms fling wide and he laughs, a terrible mirthless bark. “You know what, I can’t do this right now.” He storms out of the room. After a few seconds, the sound of a door slamming echoes through the bunker. 

Sam sighs, shaking his head like he’s trying to shake away the tension present in the room. “All right, so that all seems like very bad news. What good news do you have?”

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

Rowena does not have much of what Castiel would term ‘good news’. 

“But I can recognize the witch who cast the spell!” she chirps. “Once I got a feel for the work, it was obvious. You’re looking for a witch by the name of Octavia. Used to be she had designs on leading the Grand Coven but they had other ideas. Too ambitious for her own good, if you ask me.” She sniffs primly. 

“All right, we have a name. Is there any way that we can track this witch down?”

Rowena looks around. “It’ll take some doing, probably some ingredients that you don’t have, but…” She shrugs and smiles. “It’s not outside the realm of possibility.” 

“Yeah well.” Sam straightens. With a mission, he has somewhere to direct his considerable focus and some of the lost look leaves his eyes. “You make a list and we’ll make sure to get you what you need.”

Castiel appreciates the effort, he really does but all he can feel is a great sense of hopelessness. Is this what finally ends him, after all these years? And to go out like this--to become little more than a child, after millenia...If it were in Castiel’s nature he would throw his head back and scream at the skies for the world’s injustices. But he learned long, long ago that there was no justice to be had in the world. 

And sitting at the table, tottering on his precarious perch of several books stacked on top of each other so that he can reach the top of the table, Castiel finds that he doesn’t have the energy to fight anymore.Centuries of responsibility press down on his shoulders and he is, quite simply, _tired_. 

“If you’ll excuse me,” he finally says. Both Rowena and Sam look at him as he tries to slide off his stack of books without sending either him or them toppling to the ground. He’s successful, for the most part, and he leaves before either Sam or Rowena can say anything else to him. 

He walks down the long hallway where the bedrooms are and pauses in front of Dean’s door. From inside he can hear the sounds of someone moving. He tries to imagine what Dean could be doing. Probably not cleaning. Pacing, maybe? Re-organizing his records? The noises within don’t sound like wanton destruction, so there’s something to be said for that, at least. 

Castiel waits, his palm pressed flat on the door. He wants more than anything to go in and try to explain himself to Dean. How he didn’t mean to keep things from him _(lies lies lies_ ) but how he just didn’t want Dean to worry. How he would have told him, eventually, but he didn’t want to see that look in Dean’s eyes, the small shutter that clicks when he stops seeing Castiel as a friend and starts seeing him as a case. 

How, in his deepest, most buried desires, he just wants to lie down, to rest, to feel the reassurance of a heartbeat, the reassurance of Dean’s heartbeat. He wants to feel the weight of Dean’s hand land on his shoulder. That weight is an anchor and a promise--You are one of us. You are valued. Appreciated. 

Castiel has felt appreciated so very little in his existence. 

He wants all of this. But then he thinks about the anger in Dean’s eyes, the slamming of the door. Thinks about how _I can’t do this right now_ sounds an awful lot like _I don’t want to deal with this_. Thinks about it, and walks away. 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

It is a known fact that, of the two Winchester brothers, Dean is the one who cannot hold a sulk. 

Sam can hold a mood for years (see: Prosecution One: Stanford) but Dean’s lucky if he can last three hours. That was a record, when he was eight. Now, about twenty some years later, he’s at forty minutes and crumbling fast. 

It was stupid to storm off like that, especially since Rowena’s little talk made it clear that there’s really not a minute to lose. But damn it all, to hear Cas’ troubles from Rowena of all people? And to know that Cas is keeping something else from him? Every time that Dean thinks that he’s managed to break through to the stupid bastard, there’s another blow. 

He can’t stay in his room anymore. 

He opens his door cautiously, aware that the hinges creak. He has a child’s shame at his tantrum and he’d rather that no one saw him sneaking out of his room. Luckily, there’s no one in the hallway, although, he notices as he carefully closes his door, there is a small strip of light peeking out from underneath Castiel’s door. 

Dean stares at the narrow strip of light, weighing his options. In the end, however, it’s not really a choice at all. He walks up to the door and raps his knuckles against it. “Cas, open up.” No answer. He knocks again, a little harder. “Come on Cas, don’t be a pouter.” Still no answer. 

Without waiting, Dean opens the door, Rowena’s words echoing through his head. It’s not that, it can’t be that, it’s too soon--He steps into the room and looks around. 

Cas’ room is even more bare than Sam’s. Sam has at least stocked his room with books and some of his personal possessions, little knick-knacks which give a hint to his personality. Cas’ room looks like a hotel room, minus the individualism. There’s just a bed, a chair, and a sink. Which means that there are few places to hide. 

“Cas?” Dean’s eyes sweep the room, noting the carefully made bed, the chair placed perpendicular to the wall, the small bundle of clothes near the head of the bed--Wait. 

He walks closer, and yep, sure enough, a tiny body lies curled up on top of the pile. A quick check reassures Dean that Cas is only sleeping, not his first, terrible, conclusion. With a pang, Dean notes the coat bundled up underneath Castiel’s body. “The hell are you doing down here?” he asks the sleeping form, although he can guess. The blankets near Cas are stretched, like a short person tried to grab them while climbing and was unable to scale the dread heights of the bed. 

“Stupid,” Dean breathes. He leans against the wall and just takes the opportunity to watch. How the tables have turned: how many times has Cas watched him sleep? Despite everything, Dean allows himself to feel smug. Catching Cas asleep is akin to spotting a unicorn in the wild. He’s seen Cas knocked out, seen him dead, but asleep? Rarely. 

From the times he’s managed to catch it happening, Cas is usually a quiet sleeper: the eyes close and he’s down like a sack of flour. Not so much anymore. Now Cas is a mobile little thing, twitching and snuffling, his face scrunched up before it slackens again. 

Dean watches for a moment before he’s moved into action again. “All right, come on.” He bends down and carefully scoops Cas up. He’s so small that it’s nothing for Dean to hold him cradled in one arm while he tugs the blankets down with his other hand. 

Holding sleeping Cas is eerily similar to holding unconscious Cas from earlier in the day. Dean remembers how his heart froze in his chest as he heard Cas’ thin cry, as he watched that tiny body shudder before falling like a puppet whose strings had been cut. He’d managed to get there in time, felt the almost negligible impact of Cas into his arms. In that moment, Cas, the angel, had seemed so frail, like if Dean didn’t hold on tight enough, something would just pick him up and carry him away. 

“We’ve got to get you some kind of ladder if you’re going to be sleeping here,” Dean mutters as he carefully places Cas onto the mattress. Cas doesn’t move throughout the process, not even when Dean twitches the blankets over him. 

It’s getting harder and harder to remember the tiny details about his Cas--the real Cas. Like how Cas has picked up the habit of rubbing his jaw whenever he’s tired or frustrated, and the sound his stubble makes when it scrapes against his palm. Or how Cas can chug an entire bottle of beer in one go (when you don’t need to breathe and you don’t get drunk then it makes the contest a lot easier but it’s still an impressive feat for an angel). Or how Cas’ hair flops in his eyes when it’s late at night and he’s shed the coat and jacket and toed his shoes off. Those are the moments that Dean loves, when it’s just him and Cas and Sam and they’re curled up in their respective spaces, watching whatever crap show one of them managed to find. 

It was one of those nights, Dean remembers, that was more than all the others. It started out the same--the three of them, a case of beer, and some shitty made for TV movie. Since he was too big for regular furniture, Sam had been relegated to the armchair, which meant that Dean and Cas were splitting the couch. Sometime halfway through the movie, Dean had felt his eyes start to droop, his exhaustion fueled by a full stomach and the four beers coursing through his veins. He’d fallen into a doze, barely aware of the blanket which Cas tugged up over the two of them. 

He’d woken a few hours later, head pillowed on something firm. He slit his eyes to keep out the lamplight and hold in the receding vestiges of sleep. Some talk show was on the TV, the colors too bright and the laughter too loud. He can barely make out Sam’s empty chair. Weirdo must have taken himself to bed like a real adult. 

It’s only then that Dean takes stock of his position. Somehow in his sleep he’d gone from vertical to horizontal, stretched along the length of the couch. His socked feet stick out from underneath the edge of the blanket and Dean would jerk them back up to the warmth were it not for one, fascinating, terrifying, observation. 

His head is pillowed on Cas’ thigh. 

He keeps his breathing deep and his eyes slitted to a sliver. His heart races in his chest and he’s afraid that Cas can hear it, can somehow sense Dean’s panic and exhilaration through their contact. Because his head isn’t just brushing Cas’s leg, like an accidental “Haha, I was just really tired and I happened to fall over” kind of way, no his head is full on in Cas’ lap, like this was goddamned deliberate. 

Every instinct Dean possesses screams at him to leave but that would be awakening and acknowledging this and that seems almost worse somehow. He wants to run away. He wants to hold this moment in his hands forever. He wants someone to burst into the bunker right now and just fucking end him already. He thinks that Cas might be the end of him. 

Because this, this is not what you do with your buddy. This is private, precious, a pinprick of light against the goddamned black of their days, held like a bubble wrapped in dim lighting and shitty late-night TV. 

And Cas, Cas is...Dean could swallow a whole damn dictionary and still not have the words to describe what Cas is to him. He dares to open his eyes just a millimeter more and then he thinks that he might just die there on the spot. His view isn’t the greatest, between his position and his eyelashes clogging the view but it’s enough. 

The coat and jacket had been early casualties of the night, leaving Cas in just his button-up and a tie, which had grown progressively looser and sloppier the further the night had progressed. Dean remembers Cas unbuttoning his cuffs and rolling his sleeves up, a fact which had seemed inconsequential at the time but it’s goddamned devastating now, with that bare forearm pressed presumptuously over Dean’s shoulders. Cas’ head is leaned back against the couch, the long line of his throat exposed, and Dean could almost believe that he was asleep if he weren’t so unnaturally still. 

God, this is too much, too close and not enough to what he actually wants and Dean thinks that his molecules might start to tear themselves apart if this keeps up. Then Cas shifts and Dean’s world shatters. 

Gentle, Dean doesn’t think he’s ever been touched this gently in his entire life, fingers stroke through his hair. The pads rub at his scalp, starting at his temples and trailing down the curve of his skull to whisper over the wispy hairs at the nape of his neck. Dean has to viciously bite the inside of his cheek to keep any sound from escaping because this is ecstasy and torture all wrapped up into one bundle. 

At each touch, Dean thinks that he’s going to shatter but it continues. Cas' head is still craned back but his hand moves with a surety of purpose that Dean's never felt in his life. The pads of his fingers soothe away aches and his nails scrape over the shivers running through his skin. And just...goddamn, this is _Cas_ , and who would have thought that Cas would ever want to do this? Dean’s heart is a feeble creature and he can’t control the frantic rabbit beat of his pulse. He’s light-headed, despite not moving. and each touch is painful. He never wants it to end. 

Maybe ten minutes pass, maybe ten years, and Dean is determined to remain awake through all of this and commit each nanosecond to memory. He thinks this right until the point where his body, warm and heavy, languid with pleasure and euphoria, sinks back into slumber. 

Dean woke the next morning in his bed and only the memory of fingers pressing against his skull convinced him that he hadn’t dreamt the whole thing up. 

He never brought it up and neither did Cas.

“Should have told you that I was awake,” Dean murmurs, staring down at the child occupying Cas’ bed. “Should, I don’t know…” He knows what he should have done. He should have opened his eyes, wrapped his hand round the back of Cas’ neck and dragged him down to his level. Should have pressed his mouth over every inch of exposed skin--the stubble covering his throat, the delicate bones of his wrist, the cunning curve of his ear. 

Against his will, Dean’s fingers reach out to comb their way through Cas’ hair. It’s fine against his fingers--baby-soft. He’d always thought that Cas’ hair would be rough somehow. Dean feathers his fingers through his hair, noting how the simple touch soothes away the wrinkle in Cas’ face. 

“We’re going to find a way out of this. We always do. And then.” Dean doesn’t say it. He doesn’t need to. 

Then he’s going to make up for all the time he’s wasted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am, and have always been, a slut for cuddling scenes. No apologies.


	5. protect the flames from the wild winds around you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley is Crowley is Crowley and Dean is Dean is Dean.

~*~*~*~

 

Rowena is surprisingly helpful when she wants to be. 

Sam’s not sure if it’s the novelty of the situation or the potential for stealing something from the bunker that keeps her present and working but whatever it is, he’ll worry about it later. For now he acts as Rowena’s fetch-and-carry, getting ingredients and drawing sigils and whatever else she needs. Keeping his hands busy helps keeps his mind easy. It helps take away from the fact that one of his best friends is dying less than fifty yards away from him. 

Dean either can’t or won’t be useful and has thus relegated himself to babysitting duty. Once, Sam would have laughed at the thought that Castiel, even a de-aged Castiel, would need a babysitter. Now, however, he sees the necessity. It’s easy to spot once he knows the signs--the vacant look in Cas’ eyes, the cloudiness which floods through the normally sharp, dark blue. The way that Cas’ mouth will hang open, lost. 

It happened once while Sam was talking to him. He was asking Cas about the properties of lamb’s blood versus ram’s blood and which would be more appropriate when, there, in the space of a blink, Cas was just gone. Sam had stuttered to a stop as he wondered what to do next. Luckily, it only lasted for a moment and then Castiel was back, blinking at him like nothing had happened. Sam had gotten the answer to a question which he’d forgotten and scampered away, haunted by one moment. 

In the brief flicker of time, before Cas had blinked back into existence, Sam could have sworn that he heard a child’s voice ask “ _Who are you_?”

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

After a few hours, Cas-watching loses its charm. 

To be honest, babysitting Cas was never a coveted job. It’s just the obvious fit for Dean. He hates research and he _hates_ Rowena so he takes the job of staying with Cas. It’s not difficult--Cas doesn’t do much else other than read and occasionally sit quietly so he’s not really breaking a sweat. In that respect, it’s better than what Sam and Rowena are doing by a long shot. 

In other respects, it’s worse. 

He doesn’t know how he could have missed Cas’ blackout attacks. He’d thought that it was just Cas being spacier than usual but no, it’s like a whole damn other person is there sometimes. No, change that. It’s like there’s a little kid. 

Thankfully, it’s never long but it’s enough to make Dean’s skin crawl. The closest thing he can liken it to is watching your friend drown slowly, in increments and have your friend realize that they’re drowning and there’s nothing which you or anyone else can do to save them. 

Cas needs to eat now, just as much as they do. He’s also taken to sleeping, for hours at a time. It was startling, the first time, to find Cas asleep in his room. Now they find him asleep almost everywhere: on the couch, at the table, once, weirdly, in the bathroom. 

Dean hates it, hates everything that even suggests that Cas is changing. “How long does it take to get all the crap for this spell anyway?” he calls over to Sam. “Thought that super-witch over there could have it taken care of like that.” He snaps his fingers for emphasis. 

He can feel the force of Rowena’s eyeroll. “If it were that simple dearie, then everyone could be a witch. Also, Octavia isn’t your typical witch. She’s got herself warded up to the gills and to break through that, we need a little bit more than your standard locator spell.” She checks a list on the table. “Now Sam, be a dear and get me some faerie blood.”

Dean hates Sam a little, for the way that he jumps to fulfill her request. “Check the ‘Gross Things’ drawer!” Dean calls to him, just so he can be a jerk. 

Sam reappears after a few minutes. “Um, we don’t have any faerie blood.”

“Damn, and I was sure that I’d remembered to pick some up from the store.” 

“It’s no laughing matter! If we don’t have that blood then we can’t do the spell to find Octavia. And if we can’t find her…” Rowena trails off and smiles cruelly. “Well, I hope that you’ll be available for Parent Teacher Conference Night.” 

Dean considers his options. He already knows what he has to do but it doesn’t mean that he has to look forward to doing it. With a sigh, he reaches in his back pocket. It’s for Cas, do it for Cas, he chants as he thumbs through his contacts. 

The phone rings three times, just because the surly bastard likes to make him wait. 

“King of Hell, how may I direct your call?”

“Yeah, look Crowley, I need a favor.”

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

Say what you want to do about Crowley but he does have the uncanny ability to pop in at the worst of times. 

He, Cas, and Rowena are all in a shouting match about the proper ingredients for the spell when Crowley poofs into the room. 

“Well, this is certainly entertaining,” he drawls. Already on edge, Dean turns to Crowley, subtly shifting his body to hide Castiel from him. 

“Did you get it?” he demands, hand already out. 

“Ah ah ah, not so fast,” Crowley cautions, going so far as to shake a finger in Dean’s direction. “I’m not your delivery service Squirrel. You were awfully vague on the phone and before I hand over this,” he shakes the vial, “I’d love to know a little more of the details.”

“Yeah well, we need the faerie blood for a, um, a spell,” Sam stammers. Given their history, Dean’s perfectly fine with Sam not being able to lie well under pressure, but does he have to choose this moment to showcase his newfound honesty? “And that’s why we need Rowena. For a spell.” 

“Yes, one does generally tend to need a witch for magic. My question is, why this particular spell? It seems like an awful lot of firepower for a measly little witch.” 

“Look man, are you going to talk us to death or what? Do you have the blood?” Dean moves forward and in his impatience, forgets what he was supposed to be hiding. 

Like a good demon, Crowley’s eyes zero in on the weakest link in the room. “Well now, this is an interesting development,” he murmurs. The vial of blood disappears into his coat as he stalks forward. He absently scratches at the scruff covering his chin as he squats in front of Cas. “Aren’t you a handsome little fellow.” 

Castiel’s jaw juts forward and his eyes turn a hard, steel blue. A casual observer would read only pride, irritation, and menace in his posture but Dean can also see the cord of humiliation running through the set of his shoulders. “So far we’ve seen Angel Castiel, Godstiel, Insane Castiel, Human Castiel and Casifer. Now we see Baby Castiel. This is...Well, this is just too precious.” 

Unlike Rowena, Castiel doesn’t slap Crowley’s hand away when it reaches out to touch him. Crowley’s hands have no overt violence in them but Dean’s skin crawls as the demon holds Castiel’s face within one hand, fingers and thumbs smooshing the baby cheeks forward. “You’re so cute, I could just eat you up.”

“All right, that’s enough,” Dean snaps. Cas’ fists are clenched at his sides, practically trembling with impotent rage. “Crowley, leave him alone,” he says, when Crowley doesn’t move. 

“Relax. I wouldn’t hurt a hair on the little angel’s head.” As if to prove his point, Crowley pats Castiel’s hair, smoothing it off his forehead. He stands up and Dean appreciates the extra space between him and Cas, but it won’t be enough until Crowley is at least three time zones away from them all. 

“I’m curious, Cas, do you still have all your marbles in there, or are you a few animal crackers short of a full box?” 

“More than enough to deal with you.” Bold words from a toddler to the King of Hell. 

“Look, enough with the pissing contest already,” Sam interjects, stepping forward with his hands outstretched. Rowena watches the four of them like she’s at a doubles tennis match. If they had popcorn then she would be munching down on it. “Crowley, we need the blood. Now are you going to give it to us or not?”

Crowley stares at Cas for a second too long before he turns his attention back to Sam. “Well, I would tell you that your boy has no manners but, seeing as who his Daddies are, I can’t blame him.” 

“Cut the crap. Now give us the damn blood already.” 

With a subtle flick of his wrist, Crowley produces the vial. “And what’s in it for me? You know, I do actually have a job other than your errand boy.” 

“Yes, yes, you’re a very important demon. Now can we have our blood now, please?” Dean’s fists ache to bury themselves into Crowley’s face. 

“Sure.” Crowley flips the vial towards Sam and only swift reflexes born of a lifetime of training save the glass from hitting the floor. “But I find myself intrigued by this problem which you’ve found yourself in. I think I’ll stay to offer my help in what must be a troubling time.”

“Oh what the...Hell no!” Rowena is bad enough but at least Dean can begrudgingly see the point of having her around. Crowley on the other hand…”Look, if we need a short sarcastic bastard, well we already have one of those, don’t we?” Cas’ eyes could burn holes through him but he’ll thank Dean later for making Crowley go away. 

“Hm.” Crowley doesn’t rise to his bait. “If you’re already reaching out to me for help on what is essentially a milk run, something tells me that you’re desperate. And since you seem to have a plan, you’re not desperate for steps. No, what you lack, Dean Winchester, is time. And that means that you can’t afford to turn down help.”

“And what, you’re just going to help us out of the goodness of your heart?” Crowley’s words hit home, all the more so because they’re true. They are running desperately short of time. But Dean’s made enough bad deals in his life to sniff one out from a mile away and this--this whole thing stinks to high heaven. 

“Oh of course not.” Crowley laughs, a little dry thing. “But it’s not for nothing, having the Winchesters owe you a favor. I could use that one day. Plus,” Crowley is across the room before Dean can even think to stop him, “I wouldn’t dream of passing up the chance to spend time with the little whippersnapper.” In a blink, Cas is scooped up in Crowley’s arms and _oh what the HELL NO_ \-- “They grow up so fast, don’t they?” 

Both he and Sam move at the same time, some protective instinct dating back to cave paintings screaming at him to yank Cas out Crowley’s hands. Even Rowena’s hands are outstretched, like she’s angling to help. 

Before Dean reaches them, he has to dart his eyes off to the side. Cas’ eyes glow a bright, unnatural shade of blue and pure white light starts to build from his palm. His whole body is awash in light as his hand lands on Crowley’s forehead. Dean opens his mouth to try to stop him--Crowley might be a dick but he has just helped them and you don’t kill your reluctant allies after they do something for you--but…

Light floods the room before immediately disappearing, leaving the room somehow dimmer. Crowley still stands, with Cas still in his arms, except now Cas’ hands are twisted in his hair, his face screwed up in pain. Dean’s heart beats unnaturally hard against his chest--Cas, Cas is _hurt_ \--

Cas opens his mouth and Dean is ready for some smart remark, maybe even Cas’ favorite go-to of _I’m fine_ but what escapes his mouth is a thin, pitiful shriek that somehow has enough force to shatter the closest lightbulb. 

Crowley’s arms open and Cas falls the short distance to the ground. Dean’s earlier words echo back in his head _Kids are fragile; their heads are soft_ but Cas looks all right, he’s still conscious and able to sit up straight, so he must be fine right?

“Crowley, you son of a bitch, what the hell are you thinking--” Dean starts but he’s cut off by another noise, horrific, earth-shattering--The last forty-five seconds have been a whirlwind but this, this takes the cake--

Castiel, angel of the Lord, throws his head back and starts to cry.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

At first, Dean is literally frozen in the place. 

At least he’s not the only one. 

Sam, Crowley, Rowena--all of them are wearing the same stupid, surprised, look on their faces. It says something along the lines of what the hell and oh shit and what do we do now? 

Cas doesn’t cry. Ever. Sam cries, on occasion, and Dean won’t lie, a single man tear has slipped down his face once or twice but Cas? Cas hardly shows emotion, much less cries and yeah, he’s small, and yeah kids cry but this was still _Cas_ and Cas doesn’t _cry_ and--

“Will someone make the little bugger stop!” Rowena finally shouts, showing all of her maternal instincts by covering her ears with her hands and glaring at the rest of them. 

Tears pour of Cas’ eyes as he continues to wail at an earth-shattering pitch. Dean looks at him and it’s not Cas but it is because there’s self-recognition in his eyes, enough to be horrified at what he’s doing but not enough self-control to stop. Fat tears roll down Cas’ cheeks and some of them are born from fright and that’s it, Dean can’t take it anymore. 

“All right, knock it off, come on, up you go, it’s all going to be all right, you’re all right, you’re ok--” He continues saying meaningless comforts as he reaches down and pulls Cas upright. Without thinking he tucks Cas tight against his chest, letting Cas bury his face into the collar of his shirt. Within moments the fabric is damp and he might have permanent hearing loss from Cas’ continuous wails but the warm weight of Cas in his arms soothes hurts that he wasn’t aware he was carrying. 

“You’re fine, you’re fine, easy now, you’re all right.” He makes his way out of the library and no one moves to stop him. He continues on until he reaches his room. His hand rubs Cas’ back, the same way he can remember his mom doing when he was young, only leaving for a second so that he can open the door. With a flick of his foot he shuts the door, leaving them alone. 

Cas’ ear-piercing wails have subsided to shaky little sobs and whimpers but he still shows no desire to talk or even remove his face from its hiding place in Dean’s shirt. By now his whole shoulder is soaked in tears and most likely snot but strangely enough, Dean isn’t really all that grossed out by it. 

Another few moments pass and Cas’ sobs wind down into shaky hiccups, like he’s cried himself out of breathing properly. Dean bounces him up and down a few times, hand resting on Cas’ back. His fingertips stroke over the ends of Cas’ hair. “All right, all right, feeling better now?” Cas doesn’t reply but Dean wasn’t expecting him to. “If I set you down are you going to be a man about it?” 

Dean leans away to catch a glimpse of Cas’ face. He’s not expecting Cas to turn away from him or to hold onto his shirt in his surprisingly strong, tiny fists. “Hey. Hey Cas bud, it’s all right.”

“No, I’m ready to be a man now,” Cas says, still hiding his face. He speaks the words precisely, with long spaces in between like he has to pause in order to stop his voice from wobbling. 

“Yeah, once more with feeling. Not buying it.” Dean takes another turn around the room, giving himself and Cas another moment to settle. He thinks about his mom and his faint memories of her and he hides his smile in the mop of Cas’ hair. 

“ _Hey Jude_ ,” he starts to croon, and while the Beatles have never been his favorite band he can’t deny the healing power of their songs. Cas’ body loses its lingering tension and his breathing slowly evens back to normal. Dean drags the song out (not a hard thing to do when the chorus consists of _na na na na na_ repeated ad nauseum) but eventually there’s no reason to continue. Cas is limp in his arms and all hints of tears are vanished, except for the wet spot on his shirt. 

“All right.” Dean slowly puts Cas down, smiling wryly when he doesn’t even stir. “Cried yourself to sleep you little weirdo.” Cas is almost lost in his bed and Dean almost wishes that he’d changed the sheets more recently--they might have picked up a weird funk but Cas also has snot smeared under his nose so maybe he shouldn’t be the first to judge. 

“God, this is gross,” Dean complains as he grabs a tissue from the bedside table and dabs at Cas’ face. “You’re lucky that I like you. Wouldn’t do this for just anybody.” Cas grumbles in his sleep as Dean cleans him as best he can but he doesn’t wake. “Did you bust your noggin?” Dean probes the back of Cas’ head as gently as he can and can feel no bumps or marks. “Well, at least that son of a bitch didn’t do any permanent damage.” Anger spikes in Dean’s chest as he thinks about Crowley’s smug little smirk, holding Cas like he’s anyone’s property and then, after all of that, letting Cas _fall_ \--He doesn’t know which is worse: Crowley having the presumption to ever hold Cas or, having dared, to not treat Cas like the precious cargo which he is. 

Yeah, he and Crowley are going to have words. 

“Take five bud,” Dean says, moving the pillow to rest underneath Castiel’s head. “I’ll be here when you wake up.” 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crowley is hard to write man.


	6. these little things define you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dreams and reality.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to say a huge thank you to everyone who's left comments and kudos so far! This was supposed to be a short little thing and it's grown more than I ever could have imagined. Thanks to everyone who's been on this ride so far!

-_-_-_-_-_-_-

Once again, Castiel’s whole body aches. 

Even when he was human, he doesn’t remember hurting quite this much. There were the random twinges of pain from sleeping strangely and human digestive systems were a mystery all to themselves but he never remembers this kind of whole body hurt. If all human children feel like this then it’s a miracle that any of them reach adolescence, let alone adulthood. Human childhood development is, speaking in evolutionary terms, not very well designed. 

Castiel waits for his body to stop screaming at him while he takes stock of his situation. He can remember Crowley’s hands picking him up, can remember being held close to Crowley’s body...Disgust overtakes him, along with the rage which had first possessed him to slam his palm against the demon’s forehead—not a killing blow, just something to startle him. He hadn’t been expecting the backlash of pain. Having seen the spell, Castiel can imagine those thin ropes squeezing his body and choking his Grace. If he’s feeling that much pain from trying to summon just a thimbleful of his power then he knows...he’s starting to come to the end. There’s not much time left before he starts slipping away for good. 

With that cheery thought in his head, Castiel pushes himself up to a sitting position, blinking slowly. He takes in the small details--the record player in the corner, the guns on the walls--and it takes him much longer than it should to realize that this is not his room. Which means this is not his bed. Which means that this is Dean’s bed. Which means that Dean is--

“Hey. You were out longer than I thought you would be.” Dean sits up straight in his chair, twisting his head so that the vertebrae in his neck pop with a subtle crack. 

“I didn’t mean to be a burden to you. I’m sorry.” How much time has Dean wasted here with his uselessly sleeping body? What better uses could that time have been put to? 

“No, damn it, that’s not what I meant.” Dean rubs his hand over the back of his neck, a gesture that Castiel associates with frustration or irritation. “I just meant...How you feeling Cas? And don’t you dare tell me that you’re fine.”

Castiel takes a moment to consider his words because he was most definitely going to tell Dean that he was fine. How to answer? If he were being truthful then he would say that he hurts all over, that he is scared and anxious, that he wants to fold himself back into Dean’s arms and take comfort in the warmth and security which he found there for so brief a time. 

Castiel chooses to lie. 

“I appreciate your concern but I assure you that I’m fine. I sustained no lasting damage.”

“That’s great Cas, glad to hear it but that’s not really what I was talking about.” Castiel has spent enough time around Dean to know that what Dean does not say is often as important as what Dean does say. He knows that Dean speaks more through gestures and actions than he does with language. Right now, each and every molecule of Dean is screaming out his discomfort with the situation. 

“Dean. We’ve wasted enough time already. We need to return and see what progress Rowena has made on the spell.”

“No. No. There’s not a damn thing that either you or I can contribute and for once you are not going to run away from this conversation.” Dean pushes out of the chair and sits at the edge of the bed. It leaves enough room for comfort between the two of them but Dean is still impossibly close. “And besides,” Dean attempts, the fine lines at the corners of his eyes wrinkling as he attempts to smile, “even if you do try to run it’s not like you can outrun me.”

Though he knows that Dean meant nothing by it, the reminder that Castiel is no longer at his full strength still stings. He does, however, have more important matters on his mind than his wounded pride. “To what conversation are you referring, Dean?”

He and Dean have many conversations. They talk about cases, about ancient lore, and occasionally about television shows. On rare occasions, Dean will share anecdotes from his past, stories of his childhood and father. Those stories are always filtered through rose-colored glasses but Castiel adores these glimpses into Dean’s life and treasures the friendship which leads Dean to give him these tiny nuggets. 

There is only one conversation which he and Dean have not had. He does not know the specific title of the conversation but it occurs frequently in human entertainment, where the two main characters sit and calmly talk through their fears and hopes for the futures and a relationship with each other. It always ends happily, with all problems neatly resolved and each party promising to be the person which the other needs. Human entertainment is full of falsehoods peddled under the guise of truth. 

Castiel would rather face the wrath of an archangel than have that conversation with Dean. Unlike the characters in trite human entertainment, he and Dean are not capable of compromising. They cannot reach a satisfactory solution which will address their separate wants and needs. They both want such different things. 

Castiel remembers a night that was held like a promise in the palm of his hand, where everything in the universe seemed to settle into place. A night at the bunker, spent with Sam and Dean, and for a few hours he could lay responsibilities aside and pretend that he was nothing more than a man. He casts the weight off gladly, throws himself wholeheartedly into the illusion but always with the knowledge that his baggage waits at the door, ready for him when the dream ends. 

But tonight, the dream continues, through the long hours of midnight and early morning. Dean falls asleep on the couch, his arms curled around his midsection. Sam goes to bed not long after, one hand landing on Castiel’s shoulder and squeezing, friendship and comfort and thanks wrapped into one wordless gesture. After he leaves Castiel contemplates leaving but finds that he cannot move from the couch. He is too entranced with watching the way the shadows play over the hollows in Dean’s cheeks. 

When Dean’s body slides towards him Castiel is worried at first. He has only seen Dean act this boneless when he has been badly hurt. But no, this sort of movement is not borne from injury but rather, its opposite--reliance on the fact that someone will be there to catch him. Tonight, that person is Castiel. 

He waits, with bated breath, as Dean’s head settles on his leg, the weight slowly turning his muscles numb but he wouldn’t dare move. He can see the atoms in the air and they’re all shimmering, like they’ve waited for this moment, split apart and reabsorbed, all for this second, for Dean Winchester to fall asleep on Castiel’s leg. 

He can tell from the subtle changes in Dean’s breathing when the other man makes the shift from slumber into wakefulness. He waits for the dream to end but Dean never moves, never snaps at him. He doesn't sit up and laugh, make some reference that Castiel cannot hope to understand. No, he just stays, and hope, such a foreign feeling, blooms in Castiel’s chest. It takes him a moment to fully recognize the emotion. 

Hope. It leads him to move and do what he has long wanted to do but lacked the courage for. His hand moves to cup the curve of Dean’s skull, his fingers moving easily through Dean’s hair and lingering at the soft down at the nape of his neck. The strands are soft underneath his touch and Castiel thrills at the sensation. Humans really are lost, he thinks, drinking in each illicit moment of contact. Seven billion people busy seeking salvation from one corner or another, when the answer is found at the heart of America, in one man. 

Castiel is an angel possessed, couldn’t stop even if he wanted to. But Dean hasn’t stopped him yet, Dean hasn’t moved or said anything, which must mean that Dean doesn’t hate him. 

Dean’s breathing deepens back into slumber and after a few moments Castiel allows his hand to fall away. The dream is dimming and breaking up around the edges. Reality beckons. He puts Dean in bed, draws the blankets around his body. Once, a lifetime ago, he would watch, invisible, over Dean while he slept. He would dip inside his dreams, chase away the remnants of Hell and replace it with something that was not necessarily peaceful, but at least better. That had been before Castiel had shattered the trust between him and Winchesters. Dean hadn’t built walls upon walls against him because Dean had never imagined the need for them. 

His fingers linger over Dean’s face, brushing his forehead, nose, cheeks, and the swell of his lower lip. His stubble is rough against his fingertips, his breath a soft huff over his hand. How odd, that Dean is so fragile and so sturdy, all at the same time. Castiel's chest expands with a pain so wild and exhilarating he doesn't think that he can stand it. He waits, sure that he's going to be consumed by it all but it fades. All things fade, given enough time and motivation. 

For old time’s sake, Castiel dips into the shallow end of Dean’s dreams, ensures that they are peaceful for the night. 

Dean never asks him about that night, never brings it up. 

The dream shatters and reality ensues. 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

 

Dean can see the discomfort on Cas’ face and feels bad for putting it there but he can’t stop now. He’ll feel worse later for taking advantage of Cas when he’s weak and can’t fight him off. Right now, he reassures himself by thinking that this talk was all for the greater good. 

“We’re talking about the conversation where you shelve the bullshit and talk to me like you’re real people.” A thought occurs to him. “While we’re on an honesty kick, were you really going to kill Crowley?”

Cas purses his lips and taps his fingers on the bed-sheet. If he weren’t a kindergartner and in a bed, he would be right at home in some kind of fancy board meeting. “That was not my intention, no. I merely intended to...hurt him.” He looks at Dean and his mouth opens in an expression of affronted dignity. “Well, he had picked me up. It was a threatening gesture.”

Dean looks hard at Cas, unable to tell whether or not he’s joking. It’s difficult at the best of times, worse when he turns his guileless, baby-faced, stare on him. “Yeah. Well. Look, I can completely understand your reasoning but don’t try to kill Crowley.” _At least not yet_ , Dean thinks. _After you're back to normal, you can kill him all you want._

“Yes, I’ve seen the repercussions of that particular course of action.” The tension jolts back into Castiel’s frame. His shoulders straighten and his jaw tightens. His eyes sharpen from a hazy summer blue into rigid steel. Dean could kick himself for putting that expression back on Cas’ face. 

Cas inhales and holds it before breathing out through his nose in a soft whoosh of air. “Anyway. Wasting time here isn’t helping anyone. We should return, there might be something that we can do to help…” His voices trails off and he freezes halfway through getting out of bed, held in place by nothing more than a weak wave from Dean’s hand. 

“Broken record Cas. Look, I can’t imagine what you must be feeling right now but whatever it is, I’m sure that it’s not good. I’m just saying...I’m here for you. We all are but you know, I’m here right now.”

Cas blinks and twists the edges of the blankets in his hands. His childish face isn’t nearly as good of a poker face as his adult face and each tic and twist speaks of the war being waged. 

The words feel unfamiliar in Dean's mouth. They've lived in his head for so long he thought they'd never see the light of day.

“For once, please. Let me help you.”

For a long moment Castiel waits. His childish face is solemn and his eyes are miles away. Dean worries that he’s spaced out again but no, Cas is just gone somewhere deep inside himself. It’s a place where Dean has never been invited to go, a place Dean could never hope to find on his own. Heartbeats pass and Cas resurfaces. Swallows hard. 

“I couldn’t…” Cas stops, bites his lip, twists the blanket. “I couldn’t stop myself. It wasn’t like a possession--I was in full control of my body and emotions but I couldn’t stop anything. I...I don’t know what to call it.” 

A melancholy smile twitches on Dean’s mouth. “Cas, my friend, that is what we call a temper tantrum. Or in your case, we’ll just call them the weepies. All kids…” He trails off, aware of what he was about to say. All kids get them. Cas is not a child. He is not a child. 

“What happens if we don’t find the witch?” Trust Cas to attack the problem head-on. “What happens if this continues, if I keep on losing control...keep losing me?”

“Well, it won’t. We’ve got me and Sam, one of the most powerful witches in history and the damn King of Hell working for you. We’ll find something.” 

“And if we don’t Dean?” Dean almost welcomes the snap of Cas’ temper. It’s better than woebegone apathy. “If we don’t find a solution and I continue to deteriorate. When I reach the status of a human child--without memories, without power, without use. What will you do?”

Cas isn’t asking for reassurance. The realization dawns as Dean looks at Cas’s stubborn face. He honestly wants to know. 

“We wouldn’t leave you. I promise you, we wouldn’t leave you. We’d...Damn it if Rowena wasn’t right because we’d be at the damn conferences and whatever else you needed. I wouldn’t let you be alone.” 

Cas lifts one shoulder up in a shrug and ducks his head so that he’s speaking to the mattress. “It would be the logical solution. Theoretically, I would have no memory of either you or Sam, so I wouldn’t feel abandoned by you. I would just be...a regular child.” 

“You’d still be you,” Dean insists, clenching his fists on his knees. “You’d still be family and we don’t let family go. I don’t care how damn logical you think that it would be, I couldn’t just let you go like that.” 

Cas looks at him, blue eyes wide. Dean’s heart breaks, just a little. How many times has he made Cas think that he’s only as valuable as he is useful? I think you call him when you want something… “Cas. You know...me and Sam, we don’t…” He swallows his pride because it needs to be said, because, for all of his pie in the sky optimism, he might be running out of chances to say it. “It doesn’t matter to us what you can do all right? We’d want you around anyway.” 

Cas blinks, once, twice. Exhales in a long, shaky breath. “I only wanted to help. With, with Lucifer...I knew that I wasn’t strong enough to stop Amara as I was and I didn’t...I didn’t want you or Sam to suffer because I was weak.” 

“God...Christ, Cas.” On the list of things that Dean’s ever been angry about, Lucifer ranks decently high on the list but Cas’ apology scratches at a wound that was already scabbed over. “It’s fine. Jesus.”

“No.” Cas says it with enough force and emphasis that Dean is forced to look at him. “You were already hurt enough because of me, I couldn’t...I couldn’t bear the thought of you getting hurt when I had the power to stop it. I realize now that it was faulty thinking but...I’m sorry.” 

Dean’s heard those words fall so many times from Cas’ lips that he’d been sure that they’d lost all meaning. 

He’d been wrong. 

The wound bleeds but this time, it’s a clean cut, the kind that scabs over and afterwards, doesn’t leave a scar. 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

They’d done the spell without him, the traitors. 

Not that Dean minds, necessarily, it would just be nice to be informed of events happening in their bunker. But it’s fine. They’ve got the information that they need and who cares that Sam didn’t bother to come get him? It doesn’t matter because they’ve got what they need. 

Yeah, the next time that Sam leaves on a beer run Dean is definitely going to fart on his pillow. 

“The spell puts her in Holbrook, Arizona but she probably won’t stay there long. From what Rowena says, the energy is shaky, like she’s been relocating every few days or so.”

Dean paces. “So what you’re saying is, if we want the drop on this bitch we need to be moving pronto?”

Sam nods. “The sooner the better.”

“So…” The unspoken question is large in the air. 

“I’ll be coming with you.” Castiel attacks the elephant in the room with characteristic bluntness. 

Sam blinks at him. Dean can see the cogs in his brain working as he tries to figure out the best combination of words that will leave Cas pacified but also staying the hell out of danger. “Cas. I’m, uh, I’m not sure that’s for the best…”

“Sam,” and that’s Cas’s specialized _Humans can be irrational so I must use simple logic when speaking to them_ voice, never a good sign, “if time is limited then I need to travel with you. The reversal spell probably requires my proximity and a witch as powerful as this one cannot be contained for long.”

“Sam, he’s got a point.” 

“Yeah and there’s no way that this decision could possibly end badly!” 

Rowena and Crowley seem perfectly content to sit on the sidelines for the Winchester family debate. Like mother, like son, their eyes flick back and forth to the participants. Dean has the distinct impression that they could give a rat’s ass as to who wins but that if they don’t see at least one punch thrown then they’re going to be disappointed. 

“It probably will end badly but that’s not a reason that we shouldn’t do it!” Dean knows that his logic is flawed but the core of truth remains the same. Most decisions in their lives end badly but that doesn’t mean that they didn’t need to be made. 

“All right, well who’s going to stay with him? Unless you’d like to take him into the field?” 

Sam still retains his law school training and can be one ruthless son of a bitch in arguments. Most of the time Dean doesn’t mind when that snark and logic is applied but sometimes, he really hates it. 

“We can switch,” Dean says, grasping at straws. Sam raises an eyebrow. “Rowena can stay with him, she’s had a kid before.” Oh _hell_ , that’s even worse. 

Rowena barks out a sharp laugh, Crowley sniggers, and even Sam’s lips twitch. Cas gives him an incredulous look. 

“Seriously?” Sam asks around his smile. “For starters, she’s...well, she’s Rowena. Secondly, we’re probably going to need her to beat Octavia. And honestly--her mothering credentials are that she raised Crowley. Doesn’t really speak well of her abilities, does it?” 

Crowley and Rowena both have the balls to look offended. 

“Argue and debate all you want but it doesn’t matter. I’m coming with you and all that you’re doing is wasting time.” 

Cas really can shut an argument down when he wants. He waits for another second to see if anyone else has an argument against him but when no else speaks, he nods. “Very well. I’ll leave you to make the necessary arrangements.” He toddles off to the kitchen, in search of a glass of milk, or maybe a beer. Whatever pint-sized angels drink when they’ve won a debate. 

“You know,” Sam says, watching Rowena and Crowley follow Cas into the kitchen and there’s no way that trio is going to end well, “there is someone that we haven’t asked for help yet.”

Dean grunts. He’s almost positive that he isn’t going to like the end result of this conversation but he’s willing to stick it out for now, just to see where it goes. 

“Someone in the life, with experience and enough skills to keep themselves and a kid angel safe. Plus, someone who actually did raise a half decent kid.”

Dean was right. He absolutely, 101% does not appreciate where this conversation has gone. 

“No. Absolutely not.”

“Dean. I know that you have some weird, whatever thing, but you have to admit--This is a serious situation and we’re running out of options. Another set of hands couldn’t possibly hurt.” 

The worst part is, Sam’s right. They have each other and even Rowena and Crowley for some weird reason but...This is Cas. Is he really willing to risk Cas for something as dumb as his pride? 

“Just think about it, would you?” Sam claps him on the shoulder before wandering off in the direction of the kitchen, no doubt to keep the level of mortal injury to a minimum. 

Dean stares at the various papers and spellwork scattered around the table. His eyes don’t take in a single detail. At the end of the day, it’s Cas. And what wouldn’t Dean give to save Cas?

Sam, the smarmy bastard, doesn’t even have the good grace to look surprised when they full into the hotel parking lot in Holbrook and find Mary Winchester waiting for them.


	7. no flame burns forever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The road trip from hell, a nightmare, and an unfortunate conclusion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, there now exists artwork for this piece! Find it here: http://skeletonsinzeeclost.tumblr.com/post/181440132656/
> 
> Thank you!

~*~*~*~

 

Sam never wants to repeat that road trip ever again, as long as he lives. 

It was the family trip from hell. Dean played the part of patriarch, driving gimlet-eyed down the highway, through thunderstorms and glaring sunlight alike. Rowena chose the role of bratty teenage daughter, for reasons unknown, and spent the entire trip making sardonic remarks about anything and everything under the sun. 

Sam found himself relegated to the position of ‘Long-Suffering Mother’ as he attempted to alternately create peace and conversation. Conversation because thirteen hours was a long time to be spent in a car with three other people. Peace because those particular three people couldn’t converse about anything without fighting. 

For a mercy, Cas slept through most of the ride. Thank god for childhood responses. Sam remembered those days himself--falling asleep in the backseat with Dean constantly kicking at him and telling him to stay to his side. Dad had usually ignored them, until they either got too loud or the bickering had extended past what he decided a reasonable time. Then the hand had descended into the backseat, swatting at whatever it could find while he told them to be quiet and didn’t they see that he was driving for Chrissake and he couldn’t concentrate on the road for all the noise that they were making? 

Now, Sam knows that those reasons were all lies--John Winchester could dismantle a bomb blindfolded, fighting a ghost and probably filing his taxes, if they didn’t live off of stolen credit cards. He just got tired of them fighting. With all the other noise in his head it was a miracle that the man could ever hear either of his sons. 

This road trip is worse than any road trip spent with Dean and his dad. Dean doesn’t normally like to stop for anything--the number of bottles which have been sacrificed to the cause is astronomical--but they’re now driving with a tiny person, who has a tiny person’s control over his bladder. 

The first time Cas asked if they could pull over, Dean snapped a No and kept driving. Maybe even a little faster, like an extra ‘Fuck You’ to Cas for even daring to ask. The next time Cas asked, a few minutes later, there was an urgency in his voice that wasn’t there before. Rowena coughed, delicately. Sam craned his head to look behind him and Cas was there, hands twisted in his lap, foot jiggling up and down and a steady chartreuse blush creeping over his cheeks. 

“Dean, pull over,” Sam said, hoping that his voice didn’t leave any room for arguing. 

Unfortunately, he’s dealing with a worried Dean and a worried Dean is infinitely more likely to lash out at anyone and everyone around him rather than taking a second to actually deal with the problem. So Dean turns to him, a belligerent snarl already curling his lips. “Did you miss the part where we’re already running short on time? We don’t have time to stop for every little--”

“Pull the car over before I pull it over for you,” Rowena said. The mildness in her tone was worse than if she’d snapped because the calmness implied that she actually would go through with the threat. 

Sam hoped that it was compassion but it might have equally been the threat to the Impala that made him pull off the road, gravel flying in their wake. The second that the car came to a stop, dust kicking up around the tires, Cas had fumbled the door open and was sprinting over the bank. Tense silence swallowed the car without him. 

“He’s fading faster.” Without Cas or Crowley, trust Rowena to say whatever the Winchesters didn’t want to hear. 

A muscle ticked in the corner of Dean’s jaw. Sam saw the struggle of having to hold so many words back, but in the end what good would words do? They both know the truth: every second, Cas is slipping a little further away from them, losing a little bit more of himself. The eating, the sleeping, now the bathroom breaks...How long before Cas is gone entirely? 

Off-handedly, Sam wondered if they should have bought Cas a booster seat. If they happen to get stopped by the cops there’s no way they’re going to be able to explain themselves. 

Cas had come back to them after a moment, red staining the tips of his ears. He’d clambered into the car and immediately tucked his chin into his chest. With his arms folded across his chest, he couldn’t have perfected the ‘Don’t Talk to Me’ posture any better if he’d tried. Sensitive, for maybe the first time in their lives, everyone in the car respected his wishes. 

After that, Cas had decided to spend the rest of the car ride by being unconscious as much as possible. He’d found some of Sam and Dean’s old jackets and balled them up into a nest, sleeping with his head pillowed against the door. Sometime when they’d just entered Colorado, Sam looked over at Dean and realized that Dean was only in his t-shirt and flannel. A glance backward showed that Cas was happily curled up underneath Dean’s jacket, fingers clutching the denim up to his face. 

Dean stopped once every two hours, always choosing a brightly lit, 24 hour gas station with accompanying kitchen. He got out of the car twice for gas. Every other time he sat in the driver’s seat and watched them, fingers clenched around the steering wheel so tight that his knuckles glowed against the black leather.

(After the first time, someone always has to escort Cas to the bathroom. There’s too many people asking questions the other way. It was almost heartening to Sam, to see how complete strangers banded together when they thought that a little kid might be in trouble. Though it was weird walking with Cas to the bathroom. Thankfully, Rowena slurped up all the compliments strangers gave her on her beautiful boy.)

Dean never announced their stops, just jerked the steering wheel over and then they were blinking the lights out of their eyes. Sam wondered if he should try to give whatever comfort he could but something always warned him off, the light of a wounded animal glinting in Dean’s eyes as his head inclined towards the back seat. 

So no. It had not been a good trip. The only thing that Sam could grateful of was that Crowley could find his own transport. Having him added to the mix would have been a fucking disaster. 

So to come from that and to pull into the hotel parking lot and find Mary leaning up against her Jeep waiting for them...Sam takes a minute, his fist clenching on his knee. He’d told Dean to call her but he hadn’t thought for a second that Dean would actually take his advice. He looks in the backseat. 

Castiel sleeps the sleep of the dead, or just the very small. Cuddled up in the backseat, it’s easier than it should be for Sam to forget that he’s an Angel of the Lord (all important capitals), that he has the power to rip Sam from the universe and scatter him apart so completely that no one will remember he ever existed. Now he...he just looks like a kid. Just an exhausted kid, passed out in the backseat after a hard day. Gently, Sam tugs Dean's jacket back up to underneath Cas's chin. Cas’s eyebrows move together and Sam swipes his fingers over the small lines, smoothing them out. Just a kid. 

Outside the car, he hears the muffled murmurs of Dean and Mary (Mom) talking but he isn’t quite ready to join them yet. Instead he thinks back to the explosive arguments he and Dean had all through the bunker about calling Mom, about checking in on her. Like the jacket randomly appearing on Cas, he’s not sure when Dean made the call. He only knows two things: One, Dean made the call and Two, Mary answered it. 

“You don’t even know, do you?” Sam asks the sleeping form. He hurts with it all--Cas, Dean, Mom, the lives they could have lived and didn’t, the people that they lost along the way. He hurts with the thought that they might lose someone else, he hurts with the chance that they might save each other. There might even be a chance at happiness and that hurts worst of all. 

“Yeah, all right.” He ruffles Cas’s hair, laughs at the look he imagines Cas would give him if he were awake for the indignity. He gets out of the car and shuts the door softly. Cas is still sleeping. 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

Holbrook is a tiny, dusty, run-down town and nothing immediately screams witchcraft. It has the requisite number of shady motels and diners, as well as some tourist traps that look like they haven’t been updated since the mid 1950’s but there’s nothing which screams _DEADLY WITCH HERE, PLEASE ENTER IN ORDER TO GET YOUR FRIEND BACK!_ After an hour of trolling the town with Crowley and Rowena, Dean is ready to shoot something on basic principle alone. 

“I thought that your locating spell would be more accurate,” he snipes at Rowena, just because he feels like complaining. 

Rowena rolls her eyes. “I already explained this to you dear, do try to keep up. She’s got herself warded against anyone who would try to find her, and yes that does include finding her by magical means. It’s magic, not wish-fulfillment. You can’t just snap your fingers and expect to get everything you want.” 

Dean, who was always under the impression that magic and wish fulfillment were two sides of the same coin, glowers in the driver’s seat. He’s tired, after driving thirteen hours, and the Impala is starting to smell like people have been in her for about fifteen hours. Just for once, he was hoping that this could be an easy, open and shut case. Roll into town, threaten to shoot the witch until she fixes Cas, have the witch fix Cas, and then shoot her for being a bitch. Rinse, repeat, next case. 

But no, it looks like this case is going to be as much of a goddamned clusterfuck as the rest of their cases have been, at a time when he could really stand to have a non-clusterfucked case. Dean sighs and prepares to take another turn around the town. By now, his eyes are practically burning. 

“Look, this isn’t getting us anywhere. We need to stop for the night.” Dean shoots a glare towards Crowley, who looks distinctly unimpressed. “Look, your eyes look like pissholes in the snow, if piss were red. This is going nowhere fast and even if you did find the witch, she’d chew you up and spit you back out again. You need to get some rest.” 

“Like hell,” Dean mutters, all evidence to the contrary. His eyes hurt, his head hurts, his damn _ass_ hurts from sitting on it all day-- “Fine. I’ll call you tomorrow. And this time you’d better pick up, you prick.” 

“Yeah. Hugs and kisses to you and the rest of the family.” With that, Crowley fucks right off, leaving Rowena in the backseat. 

She drapes herself over the front seat and smiles at him. “Now, let’s see what kind of offerings this town has for a girl like me.”

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

There are no 5-star hotels in Holbrook, so Dean drops Rowena off at the nicest Hilton he can find. She looks back at him, shocked disgust on her face. He doesn’t think that she’s ever had to willingly stay at a place which serves a continental breakfast. The memory of that look gives him enough strength to make it back to the hotel. 

By the time he pushes open the door, he’s almost stumbling. However, when he opens the door and sees Sam, Mom, and Cas all surrounding the table, all hard at work, he can’t exactly whine. 

“Find anything?” Sam asks. 

Dean looks at all of them. “No,” he says, shame and irritation curling blackly around him. “No, there’s shit-all here. Starting to think that maybe Rowena was just jerking us around.”

“No, I think you’re on the right track here. Look at the headlines--animal deaths, weird storms, a few grave disturbances--all the signs track.” Mom shoves some newspapers at him. Dean gives them a quick glance before setting them back down on the table. At that, she looks closer. “You need to get some rest. You look terrible.” 

“Yeah, thanks.” He scrubs a hand over his face, hoping that he can wake himself up by sheer willpower. He checks the fridge and bar--his body screams for whiskey but he needs caffeine if he’s going to have a hope of functioning. He starts a fresh pot of coffee but the smell doesn't even start to revive him to working levels. 

“Dean, she’s right. You’ve been up for a while. You need some sleep before you fall over.” 

“Wasn’t aware that I had two moms now, thanks Sammy,” Dean grumbles under his breath. Not enough, if Sam’s face is anything to judge by. “Look, I’m fine, this is fine, I just need some coffee and then I can get back to work.” Three sets of eyes look at him. “You know, work? That thing that we all need to be doing?”

“Dean.” Out of the three of them, Cas protests the least. He remains seated at the table, kneeling in his chair so that he can reach the table. His head cocks to the side, hair flopping into his eyes. “You have to rest.” 

“No one else is resting. I don’t get a free pass. No thanks.” Cas stares at him, wide blue eyes unblinking. If that stare was strange on a full-grown man, it’s positively uncanny on a child. 

“Nothing more is going to happen tonight. I’m going to turn in.” Dean hates Sam a little bit right now because he knows that Sam is just giving in to make him go to sleep. He hates him a little bit more because it’s working. 

“It was a long drive here; I’m pretty beat. I’ll see you guys in the morning.” Mom leaves through the door in their adjoining rooms before Dean has the chance to say goodnight. 

Sam drops off soon after, only bothering to toe off his shoes before collapsing into the bed. Dean looks awkwardly at Cas for a second because they never discussed sleeping arrangements. He wonders if Mom would mind having a pint-size angel roommate. 

“Go to sleep Dean,” Cas says, sounding all the world like his older self. “I’ll be up for a while.” 

Dean blinks at him. “Yeah, all right. If you’re sure.” 

Cas narrows his eyes in his version of a smile. “I spent the majority of the day sleeping. It will do me good to work.” 

Dean’s body is screaming at him to take the offer. “Yeah well. If you need anything.” 

Cas nods. Dean flips off his shoes and sits on the edge of the bed. By the time his head hits the pillow, he’s out. 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

He’s in the library at the bunker. The stench of gasoline and blood hangs in his nostrils, mingling with the feeling of rage saturating his brain. Every beat of his heart pumps it through his body until his vision is tinged red and that’s all he can think of. His palm itches. He wants a blade. 

Cas stands in front of him, a puny, broken thing compared to Dean. Dean’s lip lifts up in a contemptuous sneer. This half-assed angel thinks that he’s going to stop _Him_?

Cas’s eyes are sad. So, so sad, and a tiny part of Dean wails for him to move, to leave, _get away_....Cas doesn’t leave, just looks at him with those eyes and Dean wonders if Cas already knows what’s about to happen. 

Dean steps forward, Cas reaches out, and bone snaps. Every beat of Dean’s heart floods his body with more rage, more, and more, until he’s drunk on it. He hears Cas’s pained grunts and gasps as his fists pummel flesh and he loves it, drinks it in like an elixir. 

Stop, Dean thinks. Please stop. Not this. This has haunted his sleep, the memory of his body breaking Cas’s. Cas tries to defend himself but he has a major weakness: he’s trying not to hurt Dean. 

Dean is trying to kill Cas. 

Dean throws Cas into the mountain of books. The angel’s crumpled body sags to the ground. _Just stay down_ , Dean pleads, screaming in his mind so that his words will reach him. _Stay down, please_ \--

Cas gets up because Cas has never given up on Dean, not once, not even when he should. 

Dean smiles as his fists pound into Castiel’s body. He smiles as Cas’s blood spatters his face. He smiles as he twists his fingers in Cas’s hair and repeatedly slams the angel’s head onto a desk, leaving smears of his blood behind. Locked away, screaming, Dean thinks that he might be sick at the slick sounds of flesh splitting and breaking. As Dean slings him onto the ground, Cas’s breaths come in thin, reedy gasps. This time, he doesn’t try to get up. His broken body won’t let him. 

Dean looks down at the wreckage he caused. Cuts litter Cas’s face, turning into a roadmap of pain. Blood dribbles sluggishly out of his mouth and sprays in the air when Cas weakly coughs. If he were human then he would already be dead. The hilt of his angel blade peeks out through his coat. It’s cold in Dean’s hand. 

_No, no, no_ , Dean screams, beating at the bars of his invisible cage. _No, you son of a bitch, don’t_ \--Cas’s eyes are still so sad, like he thought that he might actually have a chance of saving Dean. Dean holds the blade over Cas, ignoring the weak hand that wraps around his wrist, the pressure barely there. 

“No. No, Dean. Please.” Cas slurs the words around the blood in his mouth and Dean still doesn’t know if Cas is asking Dean to stop because he doesn’t want to die or because he knows that Dean will regret this act. 

“Sorry Cas,” Dean says, smiling as he brings the blade down and flesh splits and parts, and there’s blood and Grace pouring out and Cas’s eyes are so sad and Dean twists the blade and _no, no, that’s not how this happened, oh God no_ light pours out of Cas’s eyes and mouth and Dean’s screaming _no no you bastard please no that’s not what happened you can’t do this, not Cas I NEED HIM_ \--

Wings sear into the ground as Cas drops lifelessly back, his limp hand flopping next to his body and Dean screams inside his head as the monster wearing his face throws back his head and laughs--

Dean’s eyes fly open in a dim room and he flails, searching for an opponent. Fear and grief hang thick in his throat because _Cas, god no_ \--

“Dean?” 

Wild, Dean lashes out at the source of the sound. He doesn’t make contact with anything, though he does hear a startled squeak. He can just catch the sight of a small body careening backwards. He feels like he can’t breathe, he still remembers how his fists felt crashing into Cas’s body, the hilt of the knife in his hand--

“Cas?” he asks. 

“Dean?”

At the sound of that voice Dean’s heart thuds once, hard, against his sternum. “Cas?” he asks again, fumbling for the lamp next to his bed. Memories start to come back to him--spell, Mom, Rowena, driving, the dream, Christ, it was a dream… “Cas, where are you?”

“I’m here, just give me a second. These blankets are...difficult.” From the other side of the bed, the pile of blankets moves. Eventually, Cas emerges. He looks mostly worried but also a little annoyed. “Dean, are you all right? Your sleep was troubled.”

Dean chuckles mirthlessly as he rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah. Yeah, you could say that.” 

Cas sits next him. Dean wants to move away from him. He wants to bring Cas close and crush him against his chest. “Tell me.” 

If it were any other night, Dean would tell Cas to fuck off. He would down half a bottle of Jack, try to pass out and hope that he would be given at least a few hours of unconsciousness. But tonight, with Sam sleeping like the dead next to him, with Mom in the next room, with the threat of Cas slipping away--Dean sighs. 

“It was...It was the Mark.” He tries to put as much significance on that statement as he can but judging from the look on Cas’s face, he doesn’t quite make it. Cas opens his mouth, no doubt to say something about how it wasn’t Dean’s fault and Dean interrupts him. “I dreamt that I killed you.”

Any other time, Dean would make fun of how stupid Cas looks. While normally the most reaction Dean can hope to get out of him is a hard blink, maybe two if he's really dumbfounded Castiel, the switch makes it harder for Cas to keep his poker face. Like, right now, when his mouth is hanging open and his forehead is wrinkled in concern. He doesn’t usually get the drop on Cas but he can’t even enjoy it, not when Cas’s face crumples. 

“Dean. You know that I don’t blame you.” A small hand reaches out to touch his wrist and Dean automatically yanks away. Cas grabs onto the sleeve of his shirt with surprising tenacity, forcing Dean to look at him. “Both of us have done things which we’re not proud of. If we spent time comparing notes, as you humans say, we’d be here for several weeks.”

Dean huffs out a breath of laughter. “Damn it Cas.” The words are said without heat. Sometimes he forgets that Cas is an angel, what with the violence, and the drinking, and the general Cas-ness of him. But then Cas will do something like that, just spout out forgiveness like he’s asking for an extra creamer for his coffee and then Dean will remember--Oh yeah. Multidimensional wavelength of celestial intent. A pretty decent one at the end of the day. 

Cas tilts his head in confusion. “I’m not sure I understand.” 

“You don’t need to. Just...Thanks Cas. For, being you.” From the quizzical look on Cas’s face, he still doesn’t understand. Which is fine--there’s not enough time left in the night for Dean to explain the knot of emotion tangled in his chest. His hand lands on the top of Cas’s head, patting twice. 

“You should try to return to sleep.” Dean slants his eyes over to Cas. “You need sleep to properly function. It’s unwise to go into battle at anything less than full strength.”

“God, three mothers now,” Dean mumbles but he can’t bring any rancor into his tone. Not when it’s this early (late?) and Cas is beside him--admittedly smaller than usual but wonderfully alive. “Yeah sure. Whatever.”

“Good night Dean.” Cas makes to move off the bed and nope, that’s not happening. Dean reaches out and snags the back of Cas’s shirt, dragging him back up the bed. 

“Just stay here, would you?” 

Cas stares at him for a long moment. The light glints off of his eyes until he finally nods. “Fine. It’s probably more comfortable than the floor anyway.” Cas shifts his body on the pillow as he drags a blanket up. He looks over at Dean, eyes suddenly narrowed. “Don’t squash me.” 

“Don’t...What?”

“I’ve seen you sleep Dean, you’re remarkably mobile when you slumber. This body can’t handle it if you were to roll over on top of it. So I repeat, don’t squash me.”

“Yeah sure, whatever.” Cas is quiet after that, leaving Dean to think all sorts of uncomfortable thoughts. Like how Cas said that he couldn’t squash ‘this body’, like how Cas might be more amenable to having his regular body squashed. Like how this isn’t the first time that he’s shared a bed with Cas but how lately it seems like he and Cas have been reeling towards something immense, something life changing. 

“Tomorrow buddy,” Dean says, glancing over at Cas. “We’ll get you back to normal tomorrow and then…” He drifts off to sleep, thinking of all the different ways he could finish that sentence. 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

Sam’s stupid alarm goes off at the asscrack of dawn. Dean grumbles as he throws the closest thing he can find--a dirty sock--at his giant of a brother. “Shut that damn thing up!” he snarls into his pillow. 

“Screw you,” Sam mumbles intelligently, though his hand does slap around and eventually shut the alarm off. He doesn’t however, do the polite thing and let Dean go back to sleep. Instead, he props himself up on an elbow and looks around the room. “Where’s Cas?”

“He’s here.” Dean shoves his face further into the pillow, desperate to grab a few more minutes of sleep. 

“In the bed with you? Dean, what if you’d rolled on him and smothered him?” 

“I’m not--Why does everyone think that I’m going to squash him?” 

“Because you flail Dean. You’re a sleep flailer.” 

“You’re a...flailer.” Resigned to the fact that he’s not going to reach his required three hours, Dean pushes himself up. His spine pops and he winces. Not to be cliche, but he really is getting too old for this. 

And there’s the little devil right there, asleep and very much not squashed. A string of drool hangs out from Cas’s mouth, soaking the pillow underneath him. Dean reaches for his phone. Cas might be pissed as hell at him later, but there’s no way that Dean’s missing this opportunity. Sam, upon seeing what he’s doing, rolls his eyes but also sits up further to take a look for himself. 

The phone’s camera snaps as he takes the picture and yep, that’s one to take to the bank. Maybe he’ll even make it Cas’s lockscreen. 

The sound startles Cas into semi-alertness. He wakes gradually, stretching and yawning before he sits up. “Morning sunshine. Have a good sleep?”

Sam’s in the other bed, finger-combing his hair and laughing softly. Dean’s body is grouchy with him but there’s nothing out the ordinary there. The sun is finally starting to come up--It’s an easy morning, relaxed even, and Dean has the thought that he could get used to this--waking up with grumpy Cas next to him, his brother beside him, ready to start the day’s hunt--when Cas opens his mouth and _screams_. 

It’s a shrill, piercing noise that immediately shatters any semblance of normalcy. Dean jerks backward, falling out of the bed with the sheets tangled around his waist and legs. Sam jumps out of bed, with more grace than Dean, but he’s caught. He looks like he wants to reach out to Cas but any move closer to Cas just increases the volume of the screams. Cas pushes himself further up against the headboard, arms wrapped around his knees. He rocks back and forth as he buries his head in his knees, screaming all the while. 

The door to the adjoining room flies open and bounces off the wall. Mom enters, gun already drawn, looking around for the threat. The sight of her sends Cas into another batch of hysterics and now tears are rolling down his face. Dean tries to untangle himself from the mess of sheets but Cas sees his movements and starts wailing louder, if that’s possible. 

“Mom, put the gun up!” Sam shouts. He turns back towards Cas, hands held out comfortingly. “Hey, hey, Cas? It’s me, it’s just Sam, everything’s going to be all right.” Cas stops, his breath coming in harsh, hiccuping gasps. “Hey. Everything’s going to be fine.” Kids love Sam--something about the size makes him seem safe, and Dean’s waiting for Cas to settle so that they can start to figure out what’s wrong. Sam takes a step towards him. 

Cas starts screaming again, shaking his head wildly. “Stay away! Get away!” There’s something wrong with that voice, something that Dean can’t quite put his finger on...

“What in the bloody hell is going on here? You can hear the noise from the parking lot!” 

And Crowley is the perfect thing to complete the tableau as he pops into existence in the room. Cas’s eyes go wider, if that’s possible, before he buries his face into his knees, shaking back and forth and wailing all the time. 

Dean finally manages to extract himself from the snarl of blankets and stands up. He’s caught between wanting to run away and wanting to grab Cas. He settles for running away, seeing as any move towards Cas is met with renewed screams. It’s a miracle that he hasn’t burst a blood vessel by now. 

Gun holstered, Mom steps forward. “Hey sweetie,” she starts, in her best Mom voice. “Hey, just calm down all right? No one’s going to hurt you, all right?” She sits on the edge of the bed. Cas puts his head up just enough to look at her with one teary eye. “That’s it. We’re all friends here, all right?”

She reaches out to touch him. Mistake. At the sight of the hand coming towards him, Cas retreats once again, his mouth getting ready to open up in another scream. Mom jolts back but it doesn’t seem to do any good. 

“All right, that’s enough.” Suddenly, Cas is in Crowley’s arms, _AGAIN_ , and Dean snarls with rage. Not after last time--With Cas tucked on his hip, Crowley snaps his fingers in front of Cas’s face. Amazingly, the scream stops halfway through Cas’s throat, leaving him hiccuping and gasping. “Stop crying before you bring the whole bloody building down on us.” 

Tears still roll down Cas’s eyes but he’s no longer wailing so it’s at least a partial victory. Still, Crowley and tiny Castiel are things which should not mix together. “Put him down Crowley,” Dean warns, reaching out with cautious arms. 

“Not yet Dean.” Crowley turns his attention back to Cas. “Now, do you want to tell us why you were trying to burst all of our eardrums?” 

Cas stares at all of them, his eyes wide. Tears stream down his face and his hands are balled up into tiny fists, like he’s thinking about punching his way out this situation. 

The fists are what convinces Dean. Cas--Cas would smite, Cas would have already made his move but this? He walks forward slowly, hands held up to show that he’s no threat. “Hey,” he says softly. Cas looks at him, fear shining in his eyes _(just like when you almost killed him, remember how his eyes looked when he grabbed you and said Please)_ and Dean hates that he’s the one who put that look on his face. “I’m not going to hurt you, all right? My name’s Dean, that big guy over there is my brother Sam. That’s my mom Mary and this is our...um...friend, Crowley.”

“Uncle Crowley,” just because the demon likes to be a prick. 

“Dean. It’s Cas, he knows who we are,” Sam murmurs. 

“I don’t,” Cas begins and Dean finally places what’s wrong. Even as a child, Cas’s voice had a little something of the unnatural to it--too deep to be a true child’s voice. But now--it’s high and clear and not Cas. “I don’t know where I am and I don’t know you and I’m scared and _I want to go_ …” Each word is punctuated by a harsh sob until the end when his face screws up and his voice starts to rise. 

Crowley jounces him once on his hip. “Hey, no crying. We promised, remember?” Actually, Dean is fairly certain that no such contract exists but what the hell. It stops Cas anyway. 

“Dean, what the hell is going on?” Mom finally asks. She didn’t have the time to dress: she’s still dressed in a large sweatshirt and shorts and her hair is mussed. “What’s wrong with Cas?”

Dean looks at the child in Crowley’s arms. Bitter regret rises in his throat, choking him. “The problem is, that’s not Cas. Not any more.”


	8. memories will taunt you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The not-Cas, Cas, and trying to hold on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back from vacation to my real-people job, so updates will come more sporadically than they used to. Don't worry though, we're winding down to a close!

~*~*~*~*

After the confusion dies down, Sam makes a breakfast run to the diner. The breakfast he brings back is the only good part about this shitshow of a morning. But not even bacon can cover up the sour taste in Dean’s mouth whenever he looks at the small figure sitting at the table. 

Not-Cas has at least stopped crying but that doesn’t mean that he’s happy. His eyes regard them all with a mixture of suspicion and fear, though the scent of pancakes and bacon seems to alleviate some of his suffering. 

Dean can’t stop watching him. Not when Sam puts a styrofoam plate of pancakes drenched in syrup in front of him, not when Cas struggles to cut them with the plastic knife and fork, not when he tries to shove a huge bite in his mouth and misses, so that there’s syrup smeared all over his face. He tries to cut another bite off of his pancakes and fails. 

“Oh for the…” Dean can’t take it anymore. He reaches over the table and tries to ignore not-Cas’s flinch. The utensils are sticky in his hands and he saws at the pancakes, cutting them into small, child-size pieces. “There! You think you can keep from getting filthy?” 

Cas’s face crumbles and his lower lip starts to tremble. Dean’s chest twists and he starts to apologize but Sam yanks him away before he can. “Nice Dean, real nice,” he hisses as he drags him away from Cas. “You know that’s not Cas, right?”

“Yeah Sam, that’s kind of the whole problem!”

“And he’s not an adult either! So right now, you’re beating up on a little kid and you’re being a dick for no reason!” Sam’s fingers are probably going to leave bruises on his arm but Dean uses the pain to clear his mind. “Look, when Rowena gets here, we’ll figure out something to do about Cas. In the meantime, there’s a kid in our hotel room with no memory of, well, anything, and he’s alone and terrified and you shouting at him because he’s got food on his face isn’t helping.” 

“Yeah. Yeah. I just...I need some air.” It’s the coward’s way out but Dean can’t stand being in that room, listening to not-Cas talk to Crowley and Mom about stupid, little-kid bullshit. He shuts the door on the noise and breathes. 

All of his promises last night are less than worthless. He’s always known that he and Sam were going to come to a bad end, probably Mom too if she keeps going down this road, but somehow he always thought that Cas was going to be the one of them who made it out alive. He’d seen millions of years, what’s another five or so? And to go out like this--not in a blaze of glory, saving the world, defeating evil but to simply...not exist anymore? To be gone? 

Dean swallows the lump in his throat. “Fuck,” he whispers. 

“Trouble in paradise?” Rowena’s voice is as annoyingly cheerful as always, though she does look a little more rumpled than usual this morning. And how many dresses did she manage to put into her bag? That’s at least three different outfits that he’s seen her in, in less than forty-eight hours.

“Rowena. We have a problem.” 

“So I gathered from what the giant said on the phone. What is it?”

“See for yourself.” Dean pushes open the door. 

Rowena steps in and her eyes immediately zero in on the figure sitting at the table. Cas looks at her, eyes wide at the appearance of another stranger. “Ah, I see the problem.” 

“Hey, this is another one of our friends,” Sam says. True to form, not-Cas took an immediate shine to Sam. Dean tries, unsuccessfully, to not feel jealous. “This is Auntie Rowena.” 

Dean’s the only close enough to hear Rowena’s horrified whisper of Auntie? Still, she recovers admirably, tossing her coat on the bed and sitting at the table across from not-Cas. “That’s right love, I’m a friend of these strapping lads and I’m here to help.” 

Mom doesn’t look convinced as her fingers tighten on the back of Cas’s chair. Sam might be nearest and dearest to his heart but once he’d gotten over his fear, not-Cas had taken a shine to her as well. And Crowley, for whatever unfathomable reason, seems to be able to do whatever he wants with him, including reaching over and stealing a piece of bacon from Cas’s plate. No, it’s only Dean that not-Cas seems to have the problem with. Fucking typical. 

Not-Cas, who is too damn trusting once he gets a full meal in his belly, looks at Rowena with a vague interest. She looks back at him with more than a vague interest. “Now, what’s the last thing that you remember?”

Cas shrugs. “Nothing,” he says around his mouthful of food. 

“Nothing,” Rowena presses, her eyebrow rising. 

Cas swallows. “Nothing,” he repeats, his voice testy. 

“All right, I believe you. I’m just trying to figure out how you ended up here this morning.” 

Cas lifts a tiny shoulder. “Dunno. Just...showed up here.” His eyes flick around to the various people in the room. “I don’t want...Don’t make me leave.” 

“No one’s going to make you do anything that you don’t want to do,” Mary is quick to reassure. “But we’re all trying to help you.” 

Cas stares. There’s syrup glistening on his chin and it makes Dean irrationally angry. “I just showed up this morning.” 

The restraint that Rowena puts into not rolling her eyes is admirable. “Yes. Well. Would you mind if I did just a bit of poking around? I promise that I won’t hurt you.” 

Cas’s eyes seek out Sam and Crowley. “She won’t hurt you,” Sam finally assures him. “We won’t let her. She’s telling the truth; she just wants to help you.” 

Cas doesn’t seem fully convinced but he doesn’t fight as Rowena pulls her chair up next to him. Her fingers move over the air around him and it shimmers for a moment. Cas goes cross-eyed trying to watch her as her fingers come perilously close to his face. Rowena hums under her breath and she seems to be content but Dean can’t find the same peace. 

Cas is gone. He was there last night, gentle, sarcastic, and focused in the way that only Castiel can manage. Dean had hope that maybe, they could fix this thing and then maybe he and Cas could bridge whatever gap was between them. But now--He knows that not-Cas is just a kid and that it’s not his fault but he can’t help but hate the person who’s wearing the face his friend last wore. 

“Well, the news isn’t entirely awful,” Rowena finally chirps. Dean fights the urge to just shake the bitchiness right out of her. “Oh Dean, don’t look at me like that,” she chides, which is impressive, given that she’s not even looking at him at the moment and therefore has no idea of how he’s looking at her. 

“Castiel’s not gone.” 

The news is like a punch in the gut. Dean actually deflates under the news. It’s not until he feels the sharp bite of pain in the palm of his hand that he realizes his fingers have curled into fists and his nails are biting into his skin. “How, how do you know?” 

“I can read his energy. It’s still too much for a mortal child, which means that your angel is in there somewhere, just buried.” 

“This isn’t option two?” Sam asks. It takes Dean a moment to remember. Option Two: Exploding Angel. Option One is Bad but Option Two is Very Very Bad. Cas looks between them

“If it were Option Two then he’d already be dead. No, this is just the spell’s natural progression. Instead of minutes, he’s losing hours. And it’s going to be harder and harder for Castiel to come back each time.” Dean jerks his head in a nod and jerks his head towards Sam. 

“You know what this means.” Sam’s voice is low, urgent. 

“Yeah.” Dean is more exhausted than he’s felt in years. “It means that the clock’s ticking for real this time and we’re not any closer than we were yesterday or the day before that or the day before that. It means that we’re losing him and meanwhile everyone is happy to sit around with their fingers up their ass, playing house with that baby!”

“Dean.” He hates the sympathy in Sam’s eyes. He almost wants to punch it off his face but he restrains himself at the last moment. He settles for clapping his hand against Sam’s shoulder a little harder than he needs to. 

“Yeah, I know, we’re working.” 

He rejoins everyone else, taking care to put himself as far away from not-Cas as possible. Sam gives him a hard look to make sure he’s not going to do anything funny before he picks up what looks suspiciously like a hotel brochure. 

“So while I was out this morning, I found this.” Dean was right. The brochure proclaims all of Holbrook’s dubious tourist attractions on its glossy front. 

“Yes. That would be helpful if we wanted to find America’s third largest ball of twine.” It’s not often that Dean approves of Crowley but if he’s not allowed to be an asshole, then at least someone else is taking up the mantle. 

“Yeah, will you let me finish?” Sam flips open a page and slams the paper down on the table. Everyone cranes their head to look, even not-Cas who, Dean is almost positive, cannot even read. “Look at Number Three on the list.”

“Bucket of Blood Saloon? Located on Bucket of Blood Street? Is that real?” Mom’s eyebrows knit together in disbelief. 

“Yeah. Turns out this town used to be a hotbed of sin and violence. In 1886, a gunslinger was sitting in a bar when a fight broke out. It got so out of hand that someone said that it looked like the floors had been drenched with buckets of blood.” 

“A place like that,” Mary breathes, her fingers tapping on the table in thought, “with so much violence attached? Perfect place to start looking for vengeful spirits. And isn’t that what you said the witch was raising in the first place?” 

“They named a street after it?” Rowena asks. Her lips purse in a moue of distaste, probably at the crassness of American naming customs. “And you somehow missed that last night?”

“Hey, you were in the car too,” Dean protests. “I had to keep my eyes on the road.”

“Yes well, now that we have an idea where to look, shall we go?” Crowley stands up, shaking imaginary dust off of his coat. 

“Who’s going to stay here with him?” Dean jerks a thumb at not-Cas, worried eyes darting back and forth between the moving adults. 

“Well, I thought that would have been obvious. You are of course.” When Dean starts to protest, Crowley raises a hand to cut him off. “You must have noticed Squirrel, you’re too close to this. You’re erratic and if things get dicey, you’ll be no good to us at all.” 

“Yeah, screw you. I’m going.” To punctuate this, Dean puts his coat on. “Why don’t you stay with him. He likes you.” 

“Yes, Uncle Crowley is always a hit with the tykes. But as the only,” Crowley mouths an over-exaggerated ‘Demon’, “I think that my expertise is best used elsewhere. Like hunting down a witch.” Not-Cas squeaks with horror and Crowley graces him with a benevolent smile. “A good witch. She’s going to give us all lollipops and kittens.” Cas smiles, though his eyebrows are still knitted in worry. “You, however, have no special techniques, other than bull-headedness and an amazing disregard for your own personal safety. Neither of which will do us any good on this trip.”

“Dean.” And not Mom, Dean can’t take her brand of logic and care, not right now. “Even though he is being a dick about it, Crowley’s right.”

“Mary please. Little pitchers have big ears.” At Mom’s glare, Crowley bows, ever so slightly. 

“We’ll call you the second that we find anything out. I swear.” 

Crowley, Mom, Sam...Dean turns to Rowena. “Do you want to get in on this?” 

Rowena smiles as she stands up from the table. “Now Dean. I think that it’s time you got in touch with your paternal side, don’t you?” 

“Screw you,” Dean mumbles again. He’s been in enough losing fights to recognize one when he’s in the middle of it. “Look, when is Cas going to come back? I don’t want to be stuck with grade-school here all day.”

“He’ll come back when he comes back. Until then, turn on Sesame Street.” Rowena pats him on the shoulder and with a flounce of her hair, she’s gone. 

“Look, I promise. The second that we know anything for sure, we’ll give you a call. Just, sit tight. Be nice. Seriously, maybe you should put on some TV. Watch some cartoons or something.” Sam is also gone, also flouncing his hair, leaving Dean alone in the room with the not-Cas.

He turns towards him and meets his eyes for the first time since this morning, when not-Cas had seen him and screamed. Not-Cas blinks, his face solemn. 

“Who’s Cas?” he finally asks. 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

The first time that Cas forgot him, when he was doing his time as Emmanuel the faith-healer, Dean had thought that his chest had been ripped raw. He hadn’t been able to fathom how they could go through so much, the damn Apocalypse even, only to be gone from Cas’s mind. He’d seen his friend standing at the bottom of the steps and something wild had ripped apart in him, had howled its rage and grief towards the sky. 

This time doesn’t feel any different. 

“Finish your pancakes,” Dean mumbles, as he throws himself on the bed. Maybe he can go back to sleep. Not-Cas probably won’t get into too much trouble right? 

Not-Cas slams the plastic fork down on the table in a fit of childish temper. “I asked a question.” 

“And I didn’t answer it. Get over it. Life is unfair.” 

“I want to know! Who’s Cas?” 

If he hadn’t seen the hazy blue in Cas’s eyes, then Dean would almost assume that Cas is fucking with him. It’s almost the sort of thing that Cas would do, him and his weird angel sense of humor. But no, it’s just this punk kid, digging his grubby fingers in an open wound and picking around just because he’s a kid and kids are dicks. 

“Shut up. Eat your pancakes.” 

Cas’s face twists up before he starts screaming “Who’s Cas? Who’s Cas? Who’s Cas?” until it become one long single syllable of _whoscaswhoscaswhoscaswhoscas_ and finally Dean can’t take it anymore. 

“He’s gone!” he roars, sweeping his hand across the bed and sending Sam’s book flying into the wall. Startled into silence, Cas stops screaming and watches him, eyes wide and fearful. But the quiet isn’t enough to stop the flood of Dean’s temper, now that the gates have been opened. “He was my friend and he’s gone and I don’t know if I’m going to get him back!” 

Judging by his performance earlier, Dean would have guessed that not-Cas would burst into tears but maybe he’s developed a backbone over the past hour. He does stare, blue eyes unblinking, but instead of crying he creeps closer to Dean. Really the last place that Dean wants him but least he’s not screaming or sobbing. 

“I don’t like you,” not-Cas finally says.

Dean laughs. You can take the Cas out of the kid but somehow, the blunt rudeness remains. “Yeah well, I’m not that fond of you either.”

The kid tilts his head to the side, considering. “Why not? Auntie Rowena says that I’m delectable.”

“Yeah, well first lesson kid. Never trust a woman who uses the word delectable. It’s only going to end bad.” 

Not-Cas struggles onto the bed and sits beside him. “Who’s Cas?”

Dean chuckles humorlessly. “Damn, you just don’t give up, do you kid?” Not-Cas tilts his head, waiting. “Cas is…” 

It’s funny. In his mind, Dean could dredge up a dozen or so adjectives to describe Cas, just off the top of his head. Nerdy little angel, grumpy sarcastic bastard, too smart for his own good, loyal to a ridiculous sort of fault, kind of smoking hot--He looks at the kid and all he can think to say is that, “Cas is my friend.” The kid raises his eyebrows, the best non-verbal ‘go on’ that Dean can imagine and what the hell, who needs TV when you bitch out all your troubles to a four year old? 

“Yeah, me and my brother and Cas, we um, we’ve been through a lot of bad stuff together. And sometimes when you go through that, it makes you really good friends. So yeah. And Cas...it wasn’t even his problem, you know? He could have just done his job and walked away whenever he wanted. But instead he stayed to help us. And that um, that hurt him. And even though he was hurt, he still stayed helping us. Because we’re friends.” 

Said like that, their history seems so trite but how do you put all that he and Cas have been through together in words that a kid would understand? How could he possibly explain that Cas had the entirety of Heaven at his fingertips and he threw it away, just because some grubby high-school dropout asked him to? How he could he tell him that Cas always manages to fuck up but that he never stops _trying_ because somehow, Cas is still convinced that if he just does the right thing, that everything will work out? 

“Friends are important,” the kid says, nodding his head like he’s some guru. “Cas sounds like a good friend. I don’t know why he likes you though. You’re mean.” 

Dean nods. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re not wrong. Mean son of a bitch. Mean to my Mom, to my brother, mean to Cas.” 

“Why?” Goddamn this kid had a lot of questions. “If he was your friend and he did all that for you why were you mean to him?” 

“I told you. I’m a mean son of a bitch.” The kid’s head tilts, clearly unable to take no for an answer. “Because. Cas did all of that good stuff but he also did some bad stuff too. He lied to us. To me. And he left. He...he kept on lying and he kept on leaving.” Dean swallows hard, bites down the memories of all the unspoken goodbyes. “And when you do that it pisses people off.” 

The kid nods like this makes any sort of sense. “You shouldn’t be mean to people though. Even if they lie to you.” 

“Yeah all right. Being mean is bad but lying is all right. Good set of morals you’ve got there kid.” 

“No, lying is wrong. But so is being mean. You shouldn’t do either.” 

“Yeah well, I’ll stop when he does.” 

“Maybe if you weren’t mean then he wouldn’t lie.” 

Arguing with a four year old is like trying to outrun a carousel while you’re on it. You get nowhere fast. “Whatever. Just watch the TV.” 

Thankfully, the kid leaves him alone after that. He does turn on the TV and put on some garishly loud program but Dean manages to tune it out. Eventually, he finds his way to the table, where the lore books are still open from the previous night. There’s nothing that Dean can actually do but he’s sunk so low that he’d rather read the lore than watch TV with the not-Cas. 

The words all blur together after a time. They mingle with the sound from the TV as well as the conversation earlier-- _If Cas is your friend then why are you mean to him?_ “Because he was mean first, dammit.” Dean hadn’t said anything that wasn’t true. Cas lied to him. Multiple times. And he was always...Cas was always _leaving_ , even when Dean asked him not to, even when there was no reason to...Black filtering through a reservoir, one last beer in an empty bar, Cas’s face as he looks down at him in an abandoned crypt--Each time, Dean swears that he doesn’t have any more to give but then Castiel reaches down and Dean realizes that Cas can always, _always_ take more. 

And now this debacle…”Just keeping up with tradition, right? Always fucking leaving.” 

The television continues to blare, interrupting Dean’s concentration. “Look, can you turn that down or something?” When he hears nothing from the kid, Dean turns around. Maybe he’s fallen asleep. 

Or not. The small body sits on the bed, eyes wide and vacant as he stares into nothing. As Dean watches, a faint trembling starts in his hands and travels up his arms until his whole body shakes. “Hey, hey kid?” Dean asks, standing at the side of the bed without being sure how he got there. He reaches out but stops himself before he touches Cas, not sure whether he’s going to do more harm than good. 

Cas’s head snaps back, unseeing eyes focused towards the ceiling. Convulsions rip through the small body and rules be damned. Dean forces the small body backwards, holding the thin shoulders down on the bed. It’s harder than it should be as Cas’s body resists his hold. 

“Hey, hey kid, knock it off!” Dean shouts, for all the good it will do. He tries to hold the kid down with one hand, fumbling for his cellphone with his other hand. He needs Sam, he needs Rowena, he needs someone who can help him with this--

“Dean?” 

Abruptly the shaking and convulsions stop. The body underneath his hands is still, except for the small movement of Cas’s chest rising up and down. 

“Cas?” Dean asks, barely daring to hope. “Cas, is that you?”

Cas’s chest shudders underneath his hand as he sucks in a shaky breath. His eyes are wide and for the first time, Dean sees fear glinting in their depths. 

“Dean, I...I was lost. I was in the dark and I couldn’t find my way back--Dean, how long was I gone, I was lost--”

Without thinking Dean hauls Cas up to a sitting position before picking him up and crushing the small body to his chest. “God Cas, we didn’t know how to get you back, you just...it was your body but it wasn’t you in it and you were just...you were just _gone_ \--”

“Dean, I’m sorry, I was trying, I was trying to get back to you…” On reflex, Dean squeezes harder and can only slightly regret the tiny whoosh of air that Cas huffs out. 

“Shut up all right? You’re here now and that’s all that matters.” Cas’s hair smells like baby shampoo, soft and clean, as it tickles Dean’s nose. “Look, you’re back and Sam and Crowley and Mom, they’re all looking for the witch, they think they’ve got a pretty good lead on her. So you’ll be back to normal in no time and then I’m going to kick your ass for making me worry this much, all right?”

Dean finally releases Castiel, who looks at him slightly dazed. _He put his damn shirt on inside out_ , Dean notices. 

It should be fine--Cas is back and it should all be fine, but Dean can still see fear reflected back at him. “Dean. Dean I’m not sure how long I can hold on.”

“What...Cas, the hell are you talking about?” Anger is just the coward’s way of covering up fear but anger is good, anger is familiar and when in doubt, Dean turns to it. 

“I...I told you. It was like I was wandering through the darkness and I finally found my way back to the light. But I’m here now and I can still see the darkness all around me. It’s...I’m slipping Dean. I can feel myself sliding away and I can’t stop it…” Cas swallows and Dean hates how his lower lip trembles. “I don’t want to go…”

“Yeah. Yeah, well shut up because that’s not going to happen.”

Cas smiles, his eyes sad and ancient. “Dean, you can’t stop this. I’m holding on with everything that I have but I’m not sure that it’s enough.”

“Yeah, well, you make it enough! You fight and you kick and you scream and you do whatever else you need to do to make sure that you stay here!”

Cas nods, a tiny jerk of his head. “Can you...Stay here. Please.”

A tiny, vicious piece of Dean wants to say no. Wants to rip into that frisson of need until it's a raging river, wants to make Cas feel what he felt, bruised and raw and bleeding...Cas looks at him like you look at something that's already gone and Dean remembers that there is always more that Cas can take. 

“Yeah Cas. Of course. Whatever you need.”

Cas stares at him, eyes brimming over with something that Dean dare not put a name to, something too close and too far. “I need...let me talk to you.”

“What about?”

Cas shrugs, the gesture so human that it startles Dean. “Anything. Everything. About how the first time you saw me you stabbed me in the heart.”

Despite everything, a laugh rasps out of Dean’s throat because _Christ_ , it's almost poetic. “Yeah, sorry about that. But you have to admit, you were being a creepy son of a bitch. Breaking mirrors, making my ears bleed? And that bit with the trees and, oh yeah, that part where you brought me back to life?”

Cas’s eyes crinkle in an almost-smile. “You should have shown a little more gratitude. It was no mean feat.” His fingers brush against Dean’s shoulder, landing unerringly on the place where his handprint used to sit. “I was never supposed to find you, you know.”

Dean looks at him. “Beg pardon?”

Castiel stares at him and Dean is once again reminded by the fact that his friend, the dorky guy who uses way too many emoticons when he texts, is a being older than mankind itself. “I was not the only angel sent into Hell and ours was not the only garrison. Dozens of angels made the trip and they died, screaming as the fires burnt through their wings and Grace.” 

Dean says nothing and listens. From the hush and stutter in Cas's voice, he somehow knows that he was never meant to hear this story. 

“I was not the most fearsome warrior or the strongest angel in our garrison. I have no idea why I was asked to lead. Perhaps the seraphs admired my loyalty. My honor.” Cas’s face twists in a bitter smile which has no place on a child’s face. “Perhaps they just thought that I would die in the attempt. Whatever the reason, we made the plunge. And out of all those angels, I was the one who found you. So many strong, brave warriors--and at the end, it was me.”

His face splits in a small, wondering smile. “How could I not believe in the divine? After hearing my brothers and sisters burn, after feeling the fires of the Pit on my wings--and there you were. Tattered, torn, but still…” Dean shifts and Cas, maybe sensing his discomfort, continues. “I built you. I sewed your atoms back together, put muscles to bone, covered your sinews with flesh.”

Dean's skin crawls underneath Castiel's stare. Cas knows him better than anyone, save maybe Sam, but what do you say to someone who gathered up your scattered molecules and breathed life into them? “You did a good job. Fixed my trick knee and everything.” 

Cas’s eyes crinkle again. “And after all that, I get a knife for my troubles. Oh well.” One shoulder lifts in a shrug. “I suppose that I was rather insufferable then.” 

“You were an asshole,” Dean happily says. He waits for a moment. “Except, you weren’t. Not really. I mean don’t get me wrong, you were a giant tool. But even when you were being a huge dick, you were always different than the others.”

“Yes. Naomi once commented on my continuous disobedience. She said that I had been created wrong.”

“Yeah well, Naomi’s dead and you’re not, so, sucks for her.” 

“I sometimes wonder if she wasn’t right. If perhaps, I was truly created with fault. But if I were made by God then could I be wrong? Could He make such a mistake?”

Dean laughs uncomfortably. “That’s all way above my paygrade man. All I know is that when Sam and I needed help you and Bobby were the only people who were willing to help. And out of all of heaven, you were the only one who ever seemed to give a damn. And if that means that you were built wrong, then I think that God fucked up making a whole bunch of angels. And maybe he made one right.” 

Cas pauses for a minute. He blinks once, then once more. “That...That is possibly the kindest thing you’ve ever said to me. Thank you.” The silence drags on, just long enough to be uncomfortable. “I’m sorry.”

Sometimes Dean has dreams filled with nothing but Cas saying he’s sorry. _I’m sorry, I’m sorry_ \--say anything enough and the words become meaningless. “Sorry for what Cas?” The apology about Lucifer had taken him aback--what other memories is Cas going to dredge up to apologize for, when there are so many to choose from? 

“I’m sorry that I wasn’t there for Bobby.” 

Dean’s chest twists and a fresh wave of pain rocks through him. “That’s not...Cas, that was Dick. That wasn’t on you.” But how many times had he thought the same thing? _If Cas were here...If only Cas hadn’t fucked up then he could have been alive to save Bobby…_

“And who released the Leviathans?” Cas’s voice isn’t self-pitying, just resigned, like he’s had this conversation with himself several thousand times. “Sometimes, I think…” He shakes his head. “It’s no matter.” 

Conversing with Cas is an artform, one which requires soft touches and bold moves. Dean thought he had grown accustomed to the dips and turns which one talk could encompass but this leaves him off-balance. Besides, Cas sounds alarmingly like he’s close to giving up. 

“I am holding on my fingernails and it’s taking all of my strength to do that. I...I’m exhausted Dean. Millennia of existing and I...I am _tired_.” 

Fear spikes at Dean’s heart. “No, no, Cas, I don’t care, you can sleep later, you can rest later, you’ve got to keep talking to me! Come on Cas, don’t give up, not to something stupid like this! Just hold out a little longer, keep talking to me!” 

A minuscule smile twitches across Cas’s lips. Before Dean processes what’s happening, Cas’s body relaxes and slumps until he rests against Dean’s side. His weight and warmth barely register. 

“Hey. Hey.” Dean shakes him, once, to get his attention. “Remember that time that Famine was in town and you ate all those burgers? Like a few hundred of them?”

“Why would you remember that with any fondness?” Cas’s voice is slurred but still blessedly his. “That was not a proud moment in my existence.” 

“Yeah but it was funny.”

“Almost as funny as your ridiculous outfit when you went back to the past. You were wearing a blanket.” 

Cas falls silent and Dean would be willing to bet that their thoughts are traveling down the same road. By that time, Cas had been working with Crowley for a while. He’d lied to Dean, put them in danger...Dean’s heart twists and his fingers squeeze Cas’s shoulder. “We’ve been through a lot, haven’t we?” 

Cas hums in agreement. Dean dares to look down. His eyelashes are fanned out against his cheek, small face gone slack. 

“No, no, come on! Remember the time with the bees? That was kind of a good time, for you at least. Or the time that we did that ToonTown case? Cas, come on now!” 

“Thousands of years Dean. Thousands upon thousands of years, and hundreds of failures…” Cas’s smile is a ghost on his face. “If I only ever had one success, I’m glad it was you.”

“No. No. No. Cas?”

Silence. 

“Cas!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the record, Bucket of Blood Street is 100% real and if you visit Holbrook, AZ, you can see it for yourself.


	9. burning bright right 'til the end

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _What's going to be left of the world if you're not in it?_  
>  What's going to be left of the world?   
> Every minute and every hour  
> I miss you, I miss you, I miss you more  
> Every stumble and each misfire  
> I miss you, I miss you, I miss you more 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a whole hunting B-plot worked out, with complex motivations and consequences and then I just...dropped it. This little snippet is all that we get. Sorry guys, but my attention was elsewhere.
> 
> Thanks for hanging in there!

~*~*~*~*~

 

Bucket of Blood saloon might have been quite the hopping place back in the day but now it just looks like every other sad, abandoned building Sam’s ever seen. Any paint on the building is long gone, the windows are boarded up, and a general air of neglect hangs around the place. It would look sad, if it weren’t for the subtle whiff of menace in the air. Sam can almost taste it as he steps out of the car. 

Mom senses it too, if her wrinkled nose is anything to judge by. Rowena’s eyes are glittering and Crowley just looks vaguely displeased with the whole situation. Though he would never say it, Sam can sympathize. Anything involving witches always has his skin crawling. 

“All right, I’ll take the front entrance with Rowena. Mom, why don’t you go around and check the back entrance. Crowley--” Sam turns but Crowley is nowhere to be found. Demons.

“I popped in to have a look. No sign of the witch but that doesn’t mean much.” With difficulty, Sam represses his shudder. He hates it when Crowley just pops in and out like that. Inevitably, he ends up looking like a fool. 

“Right, well. Cover all the exits. I don’t know, lurk. You’re good at that.”

“I almost resent that statement.” Still, Crowley does an admirable job blending into the shadows as Sam eases open the rotted door. 

His gun rests easy in his hand, finger next to the trigger as he scans the building. Looks like Crowley was right so far. There’s nothing here except the remnants of what this place used to be: bar, half falling apart, a pool table with the felt covering shredded, and broken chairs littered like bodies around the room. The smell of vermin and human squatters is enough to make Sam’s eyes water. 

Rowena looks mildly horrified as she carefully steps around what looks like a pile of dead rats. “No taste,” she murmurs. For once, Sam can agree with her. 

“There’s nothing in the back,” Mom says as she steps into the faint light filtered through the plywood. “But look here.” She brings out a flashlight and shines it on the walls. The small beam illuminates various sigils drawn over the walls with spray paint. The small drips which fall down remind Sam unpleasantly of blood. 

“Damn it,” he curses, with feeling. This was their best lead. With Cas the way that he was, they didn’t have that much time to waste. “All right. I’m going to do one last sweep.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that,” Rowena says, her eyes fixed on a point just beyond Sam’s shoulder. Foreboding curling around his gut, Sam turns around. 

A tall, blonde woman stands on top of the ruined pool table. In the low light and filth of the establishment, she seems to glow. Her white dress doesn’t have a speck of dirt on it and the best way to describe her skin would be luminescent. Even Rowena looks dowdy next to her and Sam didn’t think that was possible. 

“I thought I smelled Hunters.” The woman wrinkles her pert nose before she winks at Sam. “Oh well. If they’re built like you then it’s not a complete loss.” 

Sam’s gun automatically lifts up but before he can say anything else, Mom has pushed him aside. “Enough with the come-on.” Her voice is steel and her hands never waver from where they have her gun trained on the witch.

The witch’s eyes flick disdainfully to the gun. “If you think that bullets are going to hurt me then you’re definitely not playing in the right league.” 

“I wouldn’t be so sure dear,” Rowena says. Her fingers are doing some complicated maneuvers, though she’s doing her best to try to minimize them. “You are looking at two-thirds of the Winchester family. I wouldn’t get too cocky.”

The witch--Octavia--rolls her eyes. “Oh God, do you think I care about the Winchesters? Keep your ears to the ground and eventually all you hear are rumors about those two pretty boys. Personally, I’ve found them overrated.”

Sam ignores the dig. “Enough with the small talk. You did something to my friend. And now you’re going to undo it. And for the record,” he shakes his gun as a reminder of the threat, “witch-killing bullets. So you might want to change your rating.” 

All right, so maybe he was more bothered by the ‘overrated’ thing than he let on. 

Octavia’s face splits into a smile that would be beautiful if it didn’t hold a slice of malice. “The angel? You mean he’s still kicking? Thought that spell would have swallowed him whole by now. Pretty-boy must be a lot stronger than I gave him credit for.” 

Black rage coils in Sam’s gut. That’s his friend that she’s laughing about. His friend who might be dying in one of the worst ways that Sam could imagine. And she’s giggling, delighted with herself. 

His finger rests on the trigger without his permission. 

“Whatever spell you put on him, you’re going to fix it.”

Octavia laughs scornfully. “Or you’ll do what, Jolly Green?”

Rowena ticks up a disdainful eyebrow. Now that she’s gotten over her horror at her surroundings, she’s back to her regular, arrogant self. “Oh, he’ll shoot you, I’d imagine. And then I’ll take over your spellbook and I’ll reverse the spell anyway. Much easier if you just do it yourself. And less messy.” She frowns as she looks at her shoes. 

Octavia frowns. Her eyes move back and forth between the two guns and Rowena, obviously trying to determine the biggest threat. “Even if I reverse the spell then you’re just going to shoot me anyway. So there’s really no winning for me.”

“I wouldn’t say that.” Crowley emerges from the shadows. “Even if you do end up shot, there’s still that little deal you made a few hundred years ago.”

Octavia’s face drains. “You,” she whispers as she looks at Crowley and a whole story is held in that single syllable. 

“Me,” Crowley agrees. “You may have yourself warded to the gills and you may have slipped through the cracks for a few centuries, but I keep my debts. Unless...a new deal comes along that I like better.” 

Octavia looks older than she did just moments ago. “If I reverse the spell you’ll tear up the contract?”

Crowley smiles. “I’ll look through the loopholes.” 

Octavia’s shoulders slump. Rowena steps forward as she begins to chant, light spreading between her fingers. Keeping the gun trained on Octavia, Sam sidles up to Mary. 

“I don’t like this Sam,” she says, never taking her eyes off the two witches. “I don’t trust her for a second. She’ll reverse the spell for a hope that Crowley might take his hold off her soul? What does she have to lose?” She glances around and says, even softer, “I also don’t like working with witches and demons.”

“Yeah, I’m not wild about it either. But it’s Cas and…” Sam trails off helplessly. He knows exactly what Mom’s trying to say because he’s felt it too. Every single time they’ve teamed up with demons or monsters it’s always come back to bite them in the ass. But they continue to do it because what other choice do they have? It’s Cas and Cas has literally tried to end the world in order to keep them safe. In comparison, spending a road trip with Rowena is small potatoes. 

“Pay attention,” Rowena calls, as the light intensifies. Sam has to squint, which means that he can’t keep an eye on Octavia’s hands. His blood screams danger and he can hear Mom curse under her breath as she recognizes the same danger. 

“Get ready,” she shouts, over the scream of magic. Sam can barely make out Octavia, she’s so drenched in light and even Rowena’s face is almost lost in the flash. Crowley is nowhere to be seen and the only reassuring thing is the feel of the gun's grip in his hands. 

Light explodes outward and Sam’s feet leave the ground. He flies backward into a pile of chairs, his hand clenched around the grip of his gun. If he loses that then he’s really lost. He hears a similar impact, of a body hitting a too solid barrier. _Mom_ , he thinks wildly, _Mom, no_ \--

His own injuries he can handle. He signed up for them a long time ago. But if his crusade gets Mom hurt--

Sam staggers to his feet, body screaming. He looks blindly around but all he can see is the white light, emblazoned on the inside of his eyelids. He blinks furiously, trying to clear his vision. This is exactly what he was afraid of, he’s helpless right now--His mind races to an inevitable conclusion and all he can think about is his own body, twisted into a smaller version of himself--

“No!” he groans, more to himself, and rubs at his eyelids. The surroundings of the bar double and triple, blurring in and out of clarity. 

A hazy vision swims into his view--Octavia, looking unphased by the spell, the smile back on her face. “I reversed the spell on your angel. Now for you--” Her smile twists until there’s two of them but Sam’s been in this game for a while and there’s no mistaking that expression, on anyone’s face--

She opens her mouth, her hands shifting into fours and sixes as she raises her arms. Sam’s finger squeezes the trigger, seamlessly, arms absorbing the kickback. Next to him, he hears the sharp report of another gun and despite everything his heart glows--Mom, Mom’s all right and Mom is fighting, the Winchesters against the world, like it should be--

The sound a body makes when it hits the floor is unique.

When the smoke finally clears, Sam blinks. Small black spots still chase themselves around his vision but at least the searing pain is gone from his head. He has several sore spots which will make themselves known with a vengeance tomorrow but he’s alive and Mom is alive. In the post-adrenaline rush which comes from a hunt, Sam is even feeling benevolent towards Crowley and Rowena. 

“Was she lying?”

Rowena hums, looking up from where she’s squatting next to the body. “About the reversal? Oh no. I recognized the basework of the spell. She reversed it.”

Sam smiles, giddy. It’s not often that they get a win like this--all he has is a few bruises and Cas is back to normal. They haven’t lost anything. 

“I’m going to call Dean and make sure that it worked.”

“Even if she hadn’t reversed it, you killed her. That usually stops everything dead in its tracks, if you’ll pardon the pun.” Puns. Yet another reason to hate Rowena. 

“Well, it never hurt to be thorough.” Mom smiles at him, riding the high of the hunt. This is part of the reason why he can never walk away from hunting, this combination of righteousness and bloodlust, of adrenaline and fear. It’s addictive and it’s even better when he doesn’t have to pay the cost of it in his friend’s blood. 

He dials Dean’s number and listens to the phone ring once, twice, three times. Makes sense. If Cas changed back Dean’s first priority would be checking on him, not on answering his phone. 

Finally Dean picks up. 

“Dean! Hey, we got the witch, she reversed the spell and well, she’s dead now, so it’s all over. I was just calling to check up on Cas--is he embarrassed? Does he still have syrup on his face?” Sam grins. He’s ready to hear Cas’s voice come through the line and tell him off for immature. 

The long silence is his first hint. 

The way Dean says his name is his second. 

Dean’s voice sounds like it’s been dragged five miles over gravel roads. 

“It didn’t work Sam.” 

Sam sucks in a breath but his lungs refuse to work in the way that lungs should. “What...Dean, what? The witch is dead and that means that everything else should be dead along with her!”

“I don’t...Maybe it wasn’t in time or maybe the spell was stronger than anyone thought--”

“Dean, that doesn’t make any sense!” Desperation starts to claw at Sam’s chest because this was supposed to be a win, damn it...He’s spiraling down and Mom is looking at him in concern, even Rowena and Crowley look like they give half a damn about his conversation. All Sam can think about is one of the last times he saw Cas, the real, adult Cas. He was just hanging out in the kitchen, absently re-organizing one of their drawers. Not for any particular reason, not because anyone asked him, he was just...Making life simpler. Helping them. 

This was supposed to be a win. 

“Sam.” Dean’s voice is final, the sound that a casket makes when it’s being closed for the last time. “Sam, he’s gone.”

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

They head back to the bunker. What else can they do? 

Crowley leaves after he sees the child in the hotel room. He leaves without any kind of sardonic remark, which is fortunate for him. Everyone’s trigger finger is itchy at this point and the yawning chasm inside Dean yearns for violence to fill it. 

Rowena fucks off to wherever she fucks off to when she’s not failing at helping them. It’s when they’re packing up that Dean realizes that Octavia’s spellbook is missing. One of the final puzzle pieces falls into place. That’s why she came along so willingly to help--no doubt Octavia had some sort of power that Rowena would have wanted to get her hands on. Well, Dean never expected altruism from her. 

They pack Cas into the backseat of Mom’s car, now complete with booster seat. She buckles him in like it's second nature, her movements easy and experienced. Dean looks away as Cas smiles at her, wide and empty and heartbreaking. 

He and Sam don’t speak hardly at all on the drive back to Lebanon. What is there to say? They tried and they failed and they’ve lost another friend. Except this time, they don’t even have a body to burn. This time, their friend, Dean’s...whatever the hell Cas could have been to him, has gone, disappeared. 

Baby’s tires eat up the miles but Dean can’t find any satisfaction in the rumble of the engine or the smooth leather of the steering wheel underneath his hands. All that he can think of is the look in Cas’s eyes when he’d finally woken up and looked at Dean. All it had taken was one look and Dean had known, known in the bone-deep way that he knows the feel of the Impala’s engine--Cas was gone. For good. 

When they get back, the bunker has the cold and empty feel of a place left abandoned. The sounds of people moving around don’t diminish the feel. Instead, they increase it, as every echo bounces back to Dean and draws his eyes to yet another place in the bunker. That table, Cas would sit there with his elbows on the table, looking at Dean as though he were wonderful and also the stupidest thing he’d ever seen in his existence. That chair--Cas would slump in it and put his feet up on the table and Sam wouldn't even bitch at him because how often do you see an angel relaxed? The kitchen--how many beers has Dean shared with Cas in here, Cas partaking of the ritual not because he likes beer but because Dean likes it? 

Looking around the bunker, Dean wonders how he could have been so blind. 

How many times had Cas been holding out his hand for Dean? And how many times had Dean seen that hand and ignored it, convinced that what Cas was offering was never meant for him? 

“I’m going to go to bed. You can put...Cas in his old room.”

“Dean, what are we going to…”

Sam just wants comfort and naturally, he looks to Dean to provide it. But Dean’s misery is a broken, black beast, rending itself with its own claws until a juicer target approaches. 

“I don’t know Sam!” Dean’s voice echoes through the corridor and Sam flinches. “I don’t know what the fuck…” His voice catches, hot and thick in his throat. “I had him Sammy and then he was just... _fuck_.” Almost on a reflex, he slams his fist into the wall. Nothing shatters. His skin splits and leaves a bloody smear on the wall. 

“I’m going to bed,” he says again and before Sam can say anything else, Dean shuts the door in his face. 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

Mom gets in a few hours later. From his room, Dean can hear the commotion. Sam’s voice is low and soothing, Mom sounds tense and Cas...Cas sounds like a kid, whiny and grouchy. Dean twists the bedsheets in his fist until he hears the fabric rip. 

Eventually he hears three doors open and shut. He closes his eyes and wishes for..for something. For a magic wand. For time-travel. For some golden, shining thread of hope that he can tug on and pull out a good ending. But he knows that’s all crap. Cas was the closest that Dean’s ever come to a miracle. 

He takes to haunting the bunker, only coming out of his room in the tiny morning hours. He can’t bear to see the pity in Sam’s eyes or endure Mom’s weird attempts at comfort. Most of all, he can’t stand to look at the thing wearing Cas’s face. Well, not really his face, but close enough. 

It’s not the kid’s fault, it’s really not, but Dean can’t help hating him. His existence was born out Cas’s death and for that, he can’t forgive him. Sometimes, when he thinks about it, his fingers twitch and he longs for nothing more than hit and bruise, to lash out at anything and everything until the world is a burning ruin around him. 

So yeah, he stays in his room for the most part. 

He stays in his room and he updates his journal and he looks through old photos and he tries not to think about Cas. He tries not to think about how the photos he has of Cas are blurry and off-center because the bastard uses his mojo for sensing when Dean’s about to take a picture and not for the important things like, say for instance, not getting stabbed. 

So all of his photos are candids, shot quickly before Cas had a chance to turn around or flick his fingers and turn off Dean’s phone. Dean took his favorite on a lazy summer afternoon when they were between jobs. He was feeling indolent and indulgent and content--Sam was here, Cas was here, and they were between Apocalypses (Apocalypti? Dean’s never sure of the grammar), so he was feeling pretty good. Riding the waves of rare benevolence, he’d washed the Impala outside, basking in the sunlight as it burned the back of his neck. 

Cas had come outside to join him, completely overdressed for a Kansas summer in his suit and coat. Dean had laughed at him, said that he looked ridiculous. Cas had given him a vaguely affronted look, like he knew he was supposed to be offended but he couldn’t quite muster up the energy. Even angels had their vacations, it seemed. 

And wonder of wonders, when Dean had flicked a few droplets of water towards Cas and told him to make himself useful, Cas had actually shrugged out of the coat and jacket, whipped off his tie and rolled up his sleeves, and grabbed a sponge. Dean hadn’t known that Cas knew how to wash a car but he sometimes forgets that Cas is ancient and therefore pretty smart, and can usually pick something up after watching someone else do it. 

And if, after that little display, Dean does a little bit less washing and a little bit more watching, then, well, he’s delegating. Cas gives the car the same attention which he gives all the tasks he undertakes. Sometimes Dean wonders what it would be like to be the focus of that attention, to press his thumb into the groove between Cas’s eyes, to put his lips to the downturn of Cas’s mouth. To be allowed to touch, instead of just watch. 

And Cas isn’t doing him any favors right now, with his white shirt turning translucent from sweat and water. Dean watches the play of Cas’s shoulders as he stretches across the hood, the blades of his shoulders shifting underneath his shirt, the tiny strip of skin revealed when Cas leans too far and pulls his shirttails clear of his pants. And then, when Dean’s eyes dip lower, to watch Cas, more specifically Cas’s ass, as he bends further over the car, with a little grunt of exertion…

Ok, yeah, Cas has to be fucking with him. Dean’d been proud on one hand: their little baby angel had grown up so much. But on the other hand--he looked down and seen the water hose, just begging to be used. 

The first jet of water had spurted across the hood of the car, splashing water into Cas’s face, enough to warn Cas of nefarious business. When he looked up, that was when the second jet of water had caught him square in the face. Dean had howled then, shaking with laughter and sending water flying everywhere, drenching himself in the process but that wasn’t the point. The point was seeing Cas sputtering and spitting like a cat, wet hair plastered to his forehead, shirt sticking to his skin--The point was seeing Cas’s face, always ancient and otherworldly, but in this brief shining moment, exasperated and fond, and blessedly _here_. 

He snapped the picture. 

He runs his thumb over the screen of his phone. It wasn’t a perfect picture by any means. He’d been moving fast, aware that this moment was fleeting. So it’s blurry and he cut out a little of Cas’s arm but the important part remains: Cas’s face, blue eyes lit up not with Grace but with pure, simple, almost human, happiness. His smile, uncomplicated and unburdened. Before Cas remembered every single reason why he couldn’t be happy, Dean had managed to capture this one second of pure joy. 

If he’d only been braver in that second--If, instead of snapping a picture, he’d walked up, knocked the sponge out of Cas’s hands and held his face between his hands. If he’d felt stubble underneath his fingers, if he’d pressed so close to Cas that his clothes had become damp, if he’d felt every inch of six feet of muscle and divine intent against him. If he’d held Cas close against the Impala, two precious things together at once. If he’d put his lips to the corner of Cas’s eyes, to the hinge of his jaw, to the curve of his lips. 

If, if, if. 

Dean looks at his phone for one last time, runs his fingers over the image of Cas’s face. If he squints, he can see the wrinkles at the corners of Cas’s eyes. The faint dimple in Cas’s cheek, like a comet, rarely sighted but all the more precious for it. He remembers the soft rumble of Cas’s laughter, like the sound of Baby’s engine, or tectonic plates shifting. He remembers Cas. 

He never thought that regret could be a physical sensation, as painful as any bullet wound. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Dean whispers once, allowing the sensations to crash over him, to the point of drowning. He polishes everything once in his mind: every memory, every promise and betrayal, every hug, every touch that lingered too long, every departure, Cas’s hand on his shoulder _Well, we had an appointment_. 

_Don’t ever change_. 

Dean looks at them all before he tucks them in a dark corner of his mind, somewhere where they can’t slice at him with every inhalation. 

He can’t bring himself to delete the picture. 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

The next night, his three a.m. scavenging is interrupted. 

“I thought that I might find you here.” 

Dean chews his mouthful slowly. “Thought Sam would be the first to come.” 

Mary sits opposite him at the table and laces her fingers together. “He wanted to. I asked him not to.” 

Dean nods. He wants to fold himself into his mother’s arms and pretend like he’s four years old again. He wants to shove her out the front door of the bunker. He wants to be able to push all of this to the back of his mind and share a beer with Cas. 

He has no idea what to say. Mom occupies another spot in his chest, one that has love, anger, and hurt all snarled up in each other until he looks at his mother and he can’t tell which one will win. 

“Dean, I can’t imagine what you’re going through right now, but locking yourself away in your room isn’t going to help anything.” 

Dean shoves away from the table. “No. Not from you.” He clenches his fist and rests it against the wall. “You don’t get to give me this talk.”

“I know that we’ve had our problems but that doesn’t mean that I don’t care any less about you.” His mother’s voice is just as soothing as it was in his childhood and Dean can feel his edges softening. He doesn’t want soft, not when soft will kill him. He wants hard, he wants jagged, he wants to be so awful that nothing will ever dare come close to him again. 

“Our problems?” Dean whirls on her, summoning his anger. _Be hard, be jagged, cut away the softness_ \--Cas’s eyes, crinkled with his version of a smile, Cas commenting on the historical inaccuracies in Westerns while Dean tells him to just shut the hell up and enjoy the movie man-- “Problems? You jumped ship! You decided that I wasn’t good enough for you to stick around for!” 

He sees the flinch in Mom’s face. Weakness. The beast inside him howls in satisfaction. “And then you try to come back and give me the ‘We really care about you’ talk? You don’t know anything about what I feel. You didn’t even know him!” 

He turns away, unable to bear the look on his mother’s face. He clenches his fist harder, feels it from a distance when his nails bite through flesh. Mom’s hand on his arm though, he feels that one like a scalding burn. 

“You’re right. I didn’t know him. And I did run.” The understanding in her voice threatens to undo Dean. “But I’m here now. And I want to help, in any way that I can. Please, let me help you.” 

Dean tries to gulp down the lump rising in his throat but he doesn’t quite manage it. It comes out as a strangled thing that he will deny to his dying day is a sob. Mom’s hand is still on his arm and her grip is strong, like she was ripped away once and now she’ll be damned if something else yanks her away. 

She could have ignored his call. When he called her, desperate, she could have let her phone go to voicemail. She could have told him no, that she was in the middle of an important case, couldn’t be bothered, sorry, maybe next time. But Dean called her, needing help, needing _her_. And she answered. And she came. Not for Cas. She came for Dean.

Dean turns into the grip, turns to his Mom and holds her tight. She’s a living, breathing hold on his family and after everything that he’s lost doesn’t it seem stupid to push her away? Heat stings at his eyes and he buries his face in Mom’s soft flannel shirt as he pretends that, just for a moment, his mom can make everything better. 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

After that, things change. 

They don’t get better and saying that they get easier would be an over exaggeration, but it normally takes Dean an extra thirty seconds after he wakes up to feel the gaping hole inside him, so things change. 

Cas--they end up not being able to call the kid anything else other than Cas--sticks around and so do the Winchesters. They don’t take jobs and they stay in the bunker, supposedly for research purposes, but really, they just don’t have anywhere to go. Mom stays with them and mostly provides help on how to care for a tiny person for prolonged periods of time. Who would have thought that Cas would get grouchy without a nap? It makes Dean want to laugh. 

The four of them fall into a semi-predictable routine. They wake up every morning and Dean scrapes something together for breakfast. Cas wanders off to watch TV, Sam and Mom read old dusty books, and Dean cleans his guns. And then he cleans the spare guns. And he cleans the emergency guns. He might even clean Sam’s guns once or twice. In the afternoon, Sam and Mom take a break and they spend time with Cas. Dean actually catches Sam on a couch in the library, Cas next to him, both their heads buried in a brightly illustrated book. He thinks that Sam might be trying to teach Cas how to read. 

It makes Dean’s stomach churn. 

One thing which hasn’t changed, he can’t bear spending any time around Cas. The brief moments they spend together at breakfast are almost more than he can take. Cas evidently remembers his first assessment of Dean as a mean person and doesn’t seek him out to spend time with him. It suits Dean fine. 

Looks like he’s not cut out for fatherhood after all. 

Sometimes he remembers his promise to Cas, made in desperation-- _We wouldn’t leave you, I wouldn’t leave you_ \--but he appeases his conscience by rationalizing that he hasn’t abandoned Cas. Cas lives with them in the bunker. Dean hasn’t left him. 

Even with that thought, it still takes him a while to fall asleep at night. 

One morning, about two weeks after they get back to the bunker, something happens to break the routine. Dean walks out of his room to start breakfast and pauses at the sight of a dark figure in the war-room. Immediately, his gun is in his hands, pointing at the mystery person. 

“The fuck are you doing here?”

“Can’t a person stop in to see his friends?”

Dean’s lip curls. “A person, maybe. But you ain’t a person and we ain’t friends. So.” Dean flips the light on, revealing Crowley lounging in one of their chairs. 

Crowley shrugs, his eyes flicking to the gun. He looks supremely unconcerned which makes Dean supremely pissed. 

“Unless the damn world’s ending, you need to get the hell out. I’ve got nothing for you here.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure,” Crowley murmurs, his eyes flicking towards the corridor. The corridor where the bedrooms are. The corridors where Sam and Mom and Cas... 

Dean might hate the kid, might resent him because he represents everything that is gone, but there’s no way he’s letting Crowley loose on him. “Oh, hell no. Over my dead body.”

“If we could be so lucky.” Crowley stands up, pats Dean’s shoulder, and then disappears. 

“Fuck!” Dean shouts, sprinting down the hall. Goddamn Crowley with his goddamn disappearing, and why the _hell_ haven’t they redone the warding on the bunker yet? By now he can hear the sounds of movement coming from Mom and Sam’s rooms. The sounds get louder when he shoves his shoulder into Cas’s door and bursts into his room. 

Crowley sits on the chair next to Cas’s bed. He looks for all the world like a kindly uncle checking in on his young relative. Next to him, Dean looks like a madman. Cas’s eyes go wide when he sees the gun in Dean’s hands. He looks towards Crowley for reassurance and doesn’t that just burn? 

“Dean, please, put the gun away. You’re scaring him.” Dean feels warmth at his back and hears the unmistakable sound of two separate clips sliding into place. “That goes for you two as well.” Cas’s eyes flick between all of them. The struggle on his face is visible as he tries to choose who to trust. “Can’t a uncle just stop by to see his favorite nephew?”

Dean actually tastes bile in his mouth. From the muffled sounds coming from behind him, Dean can guess that Sam feels the same way. 

“Call it a follow-up.” When none of the three of them move, Crowley looks exasperated for the first time. “I have a hunch.” Dean’s face remains set in stone and if it weren’t for the kid sitting less than two feet from him, he would have emptied an entire clip into Crowley by now. “I have no desire to hurt baby Cas. Slap the cuffs on me if you want but then I won’t be able to tell you what I think.” 

“It’s too early for this shit,” Dean mutters, ignoring Cas’s tiny gasp at his language. “I’m going--Christ, I’m going to go make breakfast. If you do anything...weird, then I swear to god, I’ll nail you to the front door.”

Cas’s eyes are wide and worried as he clutches at Crowley’s sleeve. Crowley smiles at him like he’s an actual freaking person and not some slimy demon. “Don’t worry, Dean is just being silly. Isn’t it fun when Dean is silly like that?” And he leans in close and chuckles, like he and Cas are in on some fucking joke. 

Dean storms away, unable to take any more shit. “Real fucking fun,” he mutters viciously under his breath. “Real real fucking fun when I skewer you through your stupid limey face.” He makes his way to the kitchen and slams a pan down on the stove with extreme prejudice. 

Sam comes in, still dressed in his pajamas. His hair is tangled and Dean can still make out the faint lines of pillow creases on his face. “Dean, what the hell? You’re just going to leave the two of them together?” 

“If Crowley wanted to hurt him, he would have done it a long time ago,” Dean answers. He cracks an egg and swears when pieces of the shell fly into the bowl. Shouldn’t have been so enthusiastic. “Besides, hurting a kid? Crowley might be a skidmark but even he’s not quite that awful. He’s never hurt anything if it wouldn’t help him. What could Cas possibly give him?”

Despite his bravado, Dean can’t help but feel anxious when Crowley doesn’t emerge from Cas’s room. Mom sits at the table, her silent judgement filling the kitchen, while Sam takes to pacing around the room, alternating sips of lukewarm coffee with pointed sighs. After another five minutes, Dean can’t take it anymore. 

“He’s been in there too long.” 

Sam stops pacing, and the pissy look on his face fades. “Do you want backup?”

Dean scoffs. “The day that I can’t handle Crowley is the day that I give up hunting for good.” He pauses before leaving the kitchen. “But if I yell, you’ll come, right?”

Sam shrugs, his face twisting in a contemplative frown. Dean rolls his eyes, striding towards the bedrooms. “Yeah, you’re a real peach.” 

The door to Cas’s room is ajar, which gives Dean reassurance. Surely if something truly awful were taking place then Crowley would make sure that the door was closed and locked. He pushes the door open with his shoulder, leaving his hands free, just in case he needs to grab a gun or a blade. 

He needn’t have worried. It doesn’t look like Crowley’s moved at all. He’s still in the chair by Cas’s bed, staring down at the small sleeping figure. His mouth is pursed in a thoughtful frown and he taps his chin with steepled fingers. 

“Hey, creep. What are you still doing here?” 

Crowley turns to him and Dean has the distinct impression that the demon is flipping through multiple options of what to tell him. His fingers twitch towards his gun. Crowley notices the movement with a flick of his eyes. 

“Remember when I said that I had suspicions?” 

Dean grunts. Crowley looks exasperated with his lack of interest but Dean is used to disappointing supernatural beings and doesn’t give it much thought. 

“Well. I had to do a little more research, but--” Something about the way that Crowley’s eyes tick towards Castiel puts Dean on edge. 

“Wait just a minute. Are you...Did you possess him?” The eggs and bacon in Dean’s stomach make a sudden bid for freedom and end up somewhere in his throat. “What the fuck man? Did you just possess a little kid?”

Crowley has the good grace to at least look a little offended. “It wasn’t a full possession, more of just a taste. I needed information and there’s no way that preschool here was going to be able to give it to me.” 

Dean scrubs his mouth with the back of his mind, wishing that he could spit the sour taste out of his mouth. The thought of Crowley in Cas is repugnant enough, worse when it’s the thought of Crowley in a body which could not possibly fight him. 

“You’ll thank me in a moment.” Crowley glances down at the sleeping child before he meets Dean’s eyes. “Your angel isn’t gone.” 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

Punching Crowley is a pastime which will never lose its charm. 

Sensitive to Cas’s needs, Dean at least drags Crowley out into the hallway before he reintroduces his fist to the contours of Crowley’s face. It feels so good the first time he does it twice more before he’s satisfied. 

“Now you have pulled some dick moves in the past, but this?” Dean huffs, his forearm across Crowley’s throat, pinning him to the wall. “This takes the cake.” He presses harder, knowing that it won’t really hurt Crowley but needing the violence. It’s grounding, bracing. “You know man. You know as well as I do that Cas is gone.”

Crowley’s eyes roll, despite the strangled choke which escapes from his throat. “Why would I lie? It’s not as though having Heaven’s most constipated angel back is in my best interest! Or have you forgotten that Castiel actually hates me?”

“Which makes it real damn confusing why you’re trying to help.” Dean doesn’t let up on the pressure on Crowley’s throat. 

“Call it a professional interest.” When Dean doesn’t move, Crowley rolls his eyes. “Look, it didn’t follow any rule of witchcraft that I was aware of. When the witch died, the spell should have been broken. But Castiel was still in his much more lovable, carry-on size. That should not be possible. Which led me to believe that maybe the spell was broken but it was just too little too late.”

“And that brings us back to now. With an ex-angel that I have to teach how to write and you, being fuck-all help.”

An invisible force strikes against Dean, knocking him away from Crowley. The demon pushes off the wall and straightens his suit before advancing on Dean. “Have you not been listening to anything that I’ve said? While I was rummaging around in Cas’s head, I came across something very interesting. Well, several things actually--he hates you.” Though it’s not news to him, the casual delivery still hurts. “Perhaps more importantly, there’s still entirely too much going on in that head to be chalked up to a mere mortal child.” 

Dean’s eyes slice over to Crowley. “His Grace?” If they can get a hold on Cas’s grace, they might be able to put him back together. He’s grasping at straws but it’s still more than he’s had in a while. 

“Nothing that easy I’m afraid. I didn’t find Cas hiding tucked away anywhere. It’s more of just...a feeling.” 

Dean clenches his jaw. “Right. Should have known that you were full of bullshit.”

Dean starts to walk away because he can’t handle this. To have hope dangled in front of him only to have it dashed to pieces...Fuck this. Fuck Crowley. He wants to punch him again. He’s not convinced that he won’t. 

Crowley materializes in front of him, effectively cutting off Dean’s stomp away. “Listen to me, you lumbering pile of flannel. My feelings are more accurate than Homeland Security, the NSA, and NASA combined. When I have a feeling, worlds shake and demons cower. So when I say that I dipped into Cas’s mind and I got a feeling, you can take it as a guarantee that your angel isn’t gone!” He throws his hands up in disbelief. “I would have thought that you would be ecstatic!” 

“Yeah, you’ve thrown me a real birthday party here! Because now you’re telling me that Cas isn’t gone but there’s no way that I can get him back. So what? He’s just floating around somewhere, helpless?”

“I’m not sure that he’s coherent enough to even know that he’s helpless,” and fuck, that is so not what Dean wants to hear. “The binding spell compressed him down until it, for lack of a better word, shattered him. The Cas as we know him flew apart and left just the shell behind. And now...he’s scattered. Probably doesn't have the capacity or ability to bind himself back together. If it's any consolation, he's not suffering. Doesn't have the capacity or ability to do that either.”

“That’s fucking worse!” Fuck, it was bad enough to think that Cas was gone entirely, but to think that Cas was still out there but pulled apart? Like a broken bracelet with its beads thrown over the floor? That Cas didn't miss him because there wasn’t enough of Cas to be able to miss him? “I can’t...there’s no way that I can get him back.” 

He hates the thick sound of his voice, hates the wobble, hates that Crowley is the one who’s seeing all of this. He knows that the bastard is going to hold this over him as long as he can, the fact that Dean Winchester is gone soft over a damn angel...But then Dean catches sight of Crowley’s face and thinks that maybe he’s not the only one gone a little soft over Castiel. 

“You need to find a way to start binding him back together.”

Dean laughs helplessly. “Yeah, let me just get my sewing kit.” He looks at Crowley, anger mingling with despair. “He’s scattered! And I don’t have any kind of mojo to reach inside heads and glue him back together! You’ve got more chance than I do!”

Crowley looks like he wants to laugh but dare not. “Pulling together an angel’s consciousness and grace? That’s a little beyond me, King of Hell notwithstanding.” Dean’s heart sinks to his knees. Somehow, despite all evidence to the contrary, he’d thought that Crowley might pull some solution out of his ass. It would probably suck and it would be a hell of a price to pay but they’d pay it _together_. That was the whole point. 

Crowley shrugs. “He’s still an angel right? From what I hear, prayer is a good way to get through to them.”

With that, he vanishes, leaving Dean alone and battered in the hallway. Later, Sam will ask him what Crowley wanted and Dean will give him some bullshit answer. He thinks that they both see through him, Mom and Sam, but he can’t care. His thoughts are like trapped animals, tossing themselves at the confines of his skull until they’re battered and bleeding. 

There’s a chance. It’s a slender, gossamer thread, but there’s still a chance and damned if Dean’s not going to grab it with both hands, even if it slices him to ribbons along the way. 

So that afternoon, instead of cleaning the emergency emergency guns, Dean pleads exhaustion and goes to his room. He shuts the door and sits cross-legged on his bed, staring at the wall while he tries to gather his scattered thoughts. “This is so fucking stupid,” he breathes, burying his face in his hands. He looks up and blinks, hard. 

All he wanted was a chance. 

So even though it feels stupid, and hopeless he closes his eyes and speaks to the emptiness. 

“Cas, you got your ears on?” 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*


	10. give me hope in the darkness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prayers and light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think two more chapters. Unless I get real feisty.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

_Castiel?_

_Cas, you got your ears on?_

_Cas?_

_Fuck, this is so stupid._

_Sorry about that. I just...I ain’t prayed in a while, all right? It just...it seemed pointless. You never answered them anyway. Kind of just like throwing shit away._

_Fuck. Sorry. Again. I’m not trying to make you feel bad or whatever and it’s all over with anyway. I just...Crowley said that prayer would work. Maybe he was just being a dick._

_Anyway. Cas, if you can hear me, this is me asking you to come home. Pull yourself together and get your ass back home. Come on. You’ve never let anything stop you from getting back before. Naptime’s over._

_Come back_.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

_Castiel, who art missing, if you can hear me, then at least give me some kind of sign man._

_Sam’s talking about putting...you, or your kid meatsuit, or whatever...Anyway, he’s talking about signing him up for school. Like we’re some kind of fucking Full House, complete with a blended family. Mom’s trying to talk him out of it, I think. I don’t...Jesus._

_Cas, if you can hear me, you’ve got to come back. I can’t....I thought that I would be good, well not good but all right, you know? I thought that I would be able to keep going but...It was bad enough when I thought that you were gone but now there’s a chance you might not be and I can’t….I can’t deal with the fact that you might need me. That I might have fucked up again. So come back home._

_Please_.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

 

In the realms of deep darkness, caught in the space between universes, a faint light pulses. 

Lured by the glimmering promise of a prayer, it moves closer, brushing against the words.

It glows brighter. 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

_You’re a fucking bastard, you know that, right?_

_All I ever asked was for you to stay. It’s fucking simple. And you couldn’t handle that._

_You just...I wanted to trust you. But, fuck Cas._

_You were... no one ever got that close that fast. You, Sam, and Bobby. That was it. And after Lucifer, with Sammy running around soulless...Christ. It was like you were the only thing in my life that made any sense._

_And after all that--You were lying the whole time. Every time I saw you, for a whole year...You were lying to me. I can’t...that much trust and you just took it and you threw it away like it was fucking nothing. Like I was nothing._

_I can’t...I don’t know if when you leave maybe this is the last time I’m going to see you or if you’ll finally decide that I’m not worth it anymore...And then you look at me and tell me that you’d rather be with me than anywhere else but you leave right after and…_

_Goddammit._

_Just...fuck you Cas. Come home or don’t, whatever. I’m done wasting my fucking time on you_.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

Another prayer falls into the darkness and the light curls curiously around it, surrounding it for a moment before pulling away. Still, it remains close to the prayer, brushing out with a tendril of light every so often.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

_Cas?_

_Castiel?_

_You told me once that names had power. That if I called your name, no matter where you were in the cosmos, you would be able to hear me._

_I’m sorry. I didn’t mean what I said before._

_Please. Please don’t let that promise have been a lie too._

_Castiel_. 

 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

Castiel. 

The light curls around the word, surrounding it. In the realm of nothingness, it has weight, and warmth. It has a taste, like rain and ozone, electricity and the anticipation just before a storm.

Castiel. 

Light pulses, stronger, drinking in the syllables.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

_I hated you for so long_. 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

_I wish that I could not care. I wish that I could take this whatever it was and dump it out on the side of the road. I wish that I could be like Mom and Sam. Sam taught Cas how to make scrambled eggs this morning, so there’s something that the kid can do that you can’t. Mom takes him out grocery shopping and everyone tells her what a polite kid he is. So mature._

_I wish that I could just give up. But I can’t._

_So fuck your little snooze fest. Get yourself back here so I can kick your ass_. 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

_Cas please. It’s been over a month. There should have been something by now._

_You son of a bitch, you don’t get to do this to me._

_Please Cas_. 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

_I never hated you._

_I only hated what you did to me. What you made me feel._

_You hate anything that can hurt you_.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

_Cas, if you don’t give me some kind of sign then...I don’t know how much longer I can keep this up._

_Cas, I told you that I needed you and it wasn’t a lie._

_And I don’t just need you for your mojo or your powers. I need you because...because when you thought that you were going to die the next day you let me buy you a hooker, even though you didn’t want one. Because you told me that you were going to make amends. Because even when you fuck up you try to fix it. Because you stood up to your family and your dad and that was something that I never did._

_Because...goddammit Cas, there’s a thousand reasons why and I’m not going to shout them into a void. If you want to hear them then you have to get your ass up here so I can tell them to you face to face._

_Come home Castiel. Please_. 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

_Cas, how much longer can I keep doing this?_

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

Prayers fall into the blackness, blinking like beacons in the night. The words jumble together but the sentiment is the same behind all of them. 

Come back. 

For the first time, the light turns upwards, searching for a pathway, for something to hold onto. 

For a way out.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

“Dean? Is everything all right?”

Dean blinks his eyes open. Sam stands in the doorway of his room, looming and concerned. 

“Yeah Sammy. A-ok.” The artificial lighting of his room hurts after spending so much of his time with his eyes squeezed shut. 

“It’s just...Mom and I haven't really seen you for like a week. Ever since Crowley was here...You’ve locked yourself back up in your room.” Dean tries to look as blase as possible. Sam squints at him. “Look, I don’t know what he said but...Crowley lies. You know that.” 

“Yeah Sam. I do know that.” 

Dean’s questioned Crowley’s motives ten ways to Sunday but he still hasn’t come up with any new conclusions. He can’t see a way where Crowley screws them over in this situation. There was no reason for him to come and volunteer the information. If Crowley had wanted them miserable, then he could have just left them alone. 

And he can’t shake off the feeling, faint though it is, that his words are maybe doing some good. There’s something in the way that the dust spirals across his room after he opens his eyes, some kind of faint stirring in the air that speaks to Dean. So he keeps on disappearing into his room, keeps on speaking into the void. 

He throws his prayers out like a net, hoping against hope that something is listening. He hopes that they light the way like candles in the night, hopes that wherever he is, Cas can see them. He hopes that Cas can use them to find his way back home, holding onto them like a tether, like an anchor. 

He hopes. 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

_I prayed every night in Purgatory._

_Sometimes I thought you were dead._

_Sometimes I hoped you were dead._

_At least then there would be an excuse for why you weren’t answering._

_Answer me Cas._

_Come back_.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

The light struggles but the darkness is merciless in its totality. Maliciously, it presses down on the light, threatening to smother it into nothingness. 

The light seeks the only help it has. It gathers the prayers around itself and burrows deep into the words and emotions. It breathes in the warmth, shields itself with the anger, and hides. Outside the cocoon of prayers, the darkness presses in, squeezing, compressing. But covered with words and thoughts, hopes and dreams, the light rests. 

It breathes in, grows brighter. 

Individual words slip into the light and it curls in delight around the small snippets of life, of reality. 

_SamMomCastielComeHomeComeBackPleaseINeedYou_

_Come Home_

Shivering with promise, the light inhales the words, caresses them, and tries to build itself. 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

_Castiel._

_I’m so tired._

_Today when I was at the range I thought I felt a breeze pass by me. I wanted it to be you._

_I have to believe that you can still hear me but I don’t know how much longer I can go on._

_Please Castiel. It’s been months. Please._

_I need you_.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

Another prayer falls and the light greedily snatches it before the darkness has a chance to claim it for its own. 

The exhaustion and hopelessness make the light shrink back. Growling with triumph, the darkness advances, battering at the flimsy structure of prayer and hope. Feeble underneath its assault, the light cowers, searching for any recourse. 

It flickers through the prayers, searching for words. The word Castiel jumps out and the light holds that word close, gathering power from the tripping, lilting syllables. 

A memory, attached to an emotion comes--a spring, in a forest. Two human shapes, embracing. Warm arms. A smile. Green eyes shining through the grey light. 

There’s something else, another word that slips away before the light can grab it--

Determined, it hunkers down in its fortress and tries to draw out more memories, more emotions.  
-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

Dean flips his phone in his hands as he stares at the screen. Sam and Mom are supposed to be out but he doesn’t trust them not to come back early and try to startle him out of his room. 

He was invited on their family trip but he declined. The one time that Sam had managed to guilt him into an outing, they’d taken Cas to the nearest park. Within twenty minutes, the kid had flown down the slide, swung on the jungle gym, and managed to skin both knees and rip a hole in his jeans. 

Sam had brought out a tissue, and since when did they travel with tissues, and dabbed at the blood on Cas’s knee. A Stepford smiling mom sat next to them on the bench. “Your son is so lovely! So nice to see a diverse community!” 

Dean had gaped, his fingers unintentionally tightening on Cas’s arms until he squirmed in discomfort. Sam had recovered first, smiling in his ‘Trust Me Because I’m Just a Big Puppy’ way. “Oh, thank you for the support, but we’re brothers. Cas is…”

“Mine,” Dean blurted, ignoring Sam’s gobsmacked look. “He’s mine.” 

Stepford Smiler blinked and managed to look startled without losing her smile. “Oh well. He’s still a lovely child!” She walked away, tittering to herself. 

Sam turned back to Dean, his eyebrows steadily creeping up his forehead to meet his hairline and they didn’t have the several weeks that it would take to unpack this whole encounter. Dean just grunted and tugged at Cas, the smaller hand swallowed in his own. “Let’s go back to the bunker.” 

Ever since then, he’s been more than content to let Sam and Mom play house. 

The light from his phone dances over his face. He’s already made his decision, he just has to go through with it now. 

There’s so much that can possibly go wrong with this plan. He’d be a fool if didn’t acknowledge the risks. But...For weeks he’s prayed and prayed and prayed and nothing’s happened. If he’s going to get Cas back then he has to do something else. Something drastic. 

He pushes the button on his phone and listens to the phone ring. 

“Well hello dearie. And what can I help you with today?” 

“Rowena. I’m going to give you some information and then I need you to meet me.”

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

Dean checks behind him for a lurking Sam or Mom, for what feels like the fourteenth time since he got to the diner. He’s fairly certain that neither of them believed his cover story about needing to go out for more ammunition but he doesn’t think that he was followed. They probably just figured that he went out for a drive. They’re not entirely wrong. 

He just went out for a drive to a diner where he plans to meet a 300 year old witch to discuss performing an incredibly dangerous spell. 

All in a day’s work really. 

All eyes, patrons and workers alike, go to Rowena when she enters. It might be her glittery dress, it might be the hair piled on top of her head with one delicate curl gracing her clavicle, or it might just be the fact that she’s Rowena. Whatever the cause, it certainly doesn’t make her forgettable. If Sam and Mom do check up on him, it will be laughably easy for them to put the pieces together. 

Rowena slides into the booth across from him, flicking a few salt crystals across the table. “Did you have to insist that we meet here? It’s so,” her nose wrinkles in polite distaste, “mundane. And do they have anything on the menu that isn’t drenched in grease?” 

“The SuperSmart Salad. Oops no, that has chicken tenders on it.” Dean smiles obnoxiously as he shoves another bite of his burger into his mouth. Grease, ketchup, and mayonnaise drip down his chin. Dean wipes it off with the back of his hand. Rowena looks like she might be sick, so his work is done. For a woman who deals in blood, bones, and graveyard dirt, she’s remarkably prissy. 

“Why did you bring me to this den of cholesterol? I assume you’re planning on going into a little more detail than you did on the phone? I don’t enjoy being yanked all over the country to deal with the Winchester’s problems.” 

“You seem to do all right for yourself when you’re dealing with our problems.” Rowena's smile doesn't quite reach her eyes. “I need another favor.”

“Indeed?” Ignoring the salt on the table, Rowena leans forward, closer to Dean. “And what might it be this time?”

“Crowley came for a visit about two months ago. He said...He said that Cas wasn’t gone.” Rowena’s poker face remains impenetrable. “And he said that praying to him might help pull him together but it’s been two months and nothing’s happened. So I need to do something else.” 

“Like what?” Rowena hasn’t interrupted him yet, which is either a very good thing or a very bad thing. 

“That was where you come in. I found a spell in the archives that’s supposed to connect you psychically to someone else, mind to mind. I need a witch to work it though.” 

He pushes the paper towards Rowena and she quickly reads over the ingredients and theory. Before she reaches halfway down the page, she’s already shaking her head. “This won’t do. This is meant to forge a psychic connection between two humans. What you’re trying to do...well, I’m not sure that it’s even possible for starters. Certainly not with this spell. It would rip you apart.” 

“So tweak the spell. Reword it. Do whatever you have to do.” 

“Why Dean. I didn’t know that you had such a high opinion of me.” Rowena primps. 

Dean lets her have her moment before he rolls his eyes. “Can you do it or not?”

Rowena re-reads the spell, lips moving as she recites the incantation under her breath. She taps the parchment with one perfectly manicured nail and nods. “I might be able to move several words around but Dean, I can’t promise that this still won’t rip you limb from limb.” 

Dean shrugs. “Well, if it wasn’t the spell it was going to be a pissed off werewolf or something else.” 

Rowena’s face is unusually serious as she stares him down from across the table. “Make light of this if you wish, but Dean but let me be fully serious. This spell...if you try to connect with Castiel in his current state--if he even is still _present_ and I’m not sure that I would trust Fergus--if you try to connect with him, in his current form...If it doesn’t work, then your mind could shred. You might be burned from the inside out. You wouldn’t die but return to your brother a burnt-out, rotted husk. Is that really what you want?”

Rowena knows how to hit where it hurts. Dean pictures it for a second--Sam’s disbelief at having lost not only Cas but Dean. Dean’s natural protectiveness rises-- _Look after Sammy, don’t leave Sammy alone_ \--but then Dean pictures Cas shoving his hand away in Purgatory, Cas blinking disbelievingly at him when Dean tosses him out of the bunker… “I have to try. If he’s out there, waiting for me...I have to try everything that I can to get him back.” Dean takes a gulp of his drink, wincing at the warm beer slithering its way down his throat. “Besides, if I die during the spell, wouldn’t that mean that you did a bad job casting it?”

Rowena chuckles, sliding out of the booth. “Oh, I do like the way that you think. I’ll be in touch!”

Dean watches her leave and finishes off the rest of his burger. He’s going to need to come up with a good cover story, and fast.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

_Cas. Cas, can you hear me?_

_You’re taking too long man. I’m coming to get you_.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

The prayer floats down and the light snatches it. The emotions are clear. Instead of _Come Home_ it’s _Stay Put_. The light curls in a question around the prayer, repeatedly dipping into the emotions in an attempt to understand. 

It’s still working its way up to sentient thought but the light understands one thing--The dark is omnipresent and omnipotent. There is no fighting it. Daring to venture outside the fortress of prayer is asking to be obliterated. 

Worried now, the light darts from side to side in anxious indecision. To leave and risk the danger of the darkness, to be squeezed into nothingness? To risk not finding any more prayers? To get lost in the infinite emptiness? Or to stay? To never become anything more than what it is right now, to spend the rest of eternity huddled in a flimsy fort, hoping desperately that the darkness will leave it alone? 

Caught between two terrible choices, the light trembles.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

It’s a week before Rowena calls him back with the news that she's revised the spell as best she can. Dean's spent his week working through a plan that he thinks is almost fail-proof. He slowly starts increasing his family time, emerging from his room and participating in human conversations. The first day Sam looks at him suspiciously, his eyes going all squinty every time Dean offers up something that isn’t a belligerent grunt or a curse. The second day, the squintiness remains but Sam at least starts to accept Dean’s willingness to be with them. 

By the end of the week, Sam’s mouth isn’t even pursing when Dean talks to Mom or Cas. It takes all that Dean has to play nice with Cas but it ends up being easier than he thought it would be. Cas the kid is simple enough to get along with, all things considered. He’s just a kid--not really a specific kid with a specific personality, more like a smashing together of basic tropes in kid-shape. It makes sense, if Dean thinks about it. There's no history to kid Cas--no traumas, no parental issues--so he ends up more like a second-rate actor playing a badly written kid on a daytime TV show. 

Dean thinks that his plan works. All it takes is a few days and Cas’s opinion of Dean as a mean son of a bitch softens into something along the lines of ‘Third Favorite Person Behind Sam and Mary’. Considering that there are only three adults in the bunker, it’s not exactly a banner title but hey. Dean will take what he can get at this point. 

Rowena’s call is still a welcome relief. His re-integration into the family means that he's had to cut down on his daily prayer regimen. He doesn’t know what the lack of prayers might do to Cas and he doesn’t want to find out. So he plays house and he smiles and he tosses out prayers like breadcrumbs. 

_Cas I’m coming hold on Cas you hear me you son of a bitch I’m coming for you so you just be ready_. 

The next morning, Dean begins the final phase of his plan. He drops hints about a potential hunt, near enough and enticing enough to make Mom antsy. By mid-morning she announces that she’s taking off to check it out, she’ll be back by that evening, no it’s nothing to worry about. She doesn’t want company. Dean makes all the right concerned noises and hides his smile behind the cereal box. Hunters. They’re all so predictable--none of them do very well with forced confinement. 

After that, it’s the work of a few moments to get Sam out of the bunker. They’ve been in forced confinement, stressed and inactive for far too long and Dean knows exactly where to push to get a reaction. It takes him all of an hour before Sam’s stomping out of the house, shouting over his shoulder that he needs groceries and he’ll be gone for a few hours and that Dean should try not to talk to the kid because he’s such a jerk. 

“Don’t wreck my car!” Dean shouts after him, selling the part. The bunker door slams behind Sam in response. So far, so good. Dean allows himself a moment's guilt at sending Mom and Sam away before he ruthlessly smothers it. It's better if they're not here. They'd only try to stop him. 

Now the harder work begins.

He finds Cas curled up on the couch, flipping through a picture book. “So we’re about to have a visitor,” Dean says. Cas looks up at him, head tilted to the side in an unspoken question. “You remember Auntie Rowena?" Dean only gags a little bit at the title. "Well, she was worried about how you were doing and she wanted to check up on you. So she’ll be stopping by in a few minutes.”

Cas shrugs. “All right.” He has a child’s innate trust and Dean almost feels bad. If this works, then this kid, whoever, whatever, he is, will disappear forever. It’s not exactly killing him because he never really existed in the first place, but the moral quandary is enough to make Dean squirm. Still. If he has to choose between this unnamed, unknowable kid and Cas...Dean will take Cas every single time. He doesn't sleep well anyway. What's the loss of a few more hours? 

Rowena knocks on the door a few minutes later. Her heels echo on the steps as she descends, her eyes immediately seeking out the bunker's tiniest resident. She coos over Cas for a few minutes before Dean hurries her along. “Did you bring everything?”

“Of course,” she says, tearing herself away from Cas long enough to shoot Dean a dirty look. For a woman who claims to not love anything and hate children, she spends an awful lot of time mooning over Cas. Maybe she really likes the kid. Maybe she just does it because she knows it pisses Dean off. With Rowena, anything's possible. “Where are we going to set up?”

Dean’s already thought this through. “Basement. There’s enough room for everything we need.” Also, and he doesn’t mention this, the doors are sturdy and capable of being locked from the inside. If either Sam or Mom comes home then he’s going to need every extra second of time he can get. 

“And you’re sure about this?” Rowena asks like she cares and hell, maybe she does, in her own weird, Rowena way. She certainly didn’t have to answer his call. She might have profited by stealing Octavia’s spellbook but she didn’t know that the book was going to be in play when she answered the phone the first time. Rowena, Crowley, and Mom--maybe it’s possible that Dean has more friends than he originally thought. The notion makes something warm curl in the pit of his stomach. Dean pushes it away. Neither the place nor the time. 

“Yeah,” Dean says roughly. “This is the only way.” That’s not true: he isn’t under an obligation to do anything but the only other option is letting Cas waste away to nothing. Abandoning Cas and letting him face oblivion on his own? Hell, that’s no option at all. 

Rowena’s eyes search his before she nods. “Now, the spell works by sending your consciousness to meet the other’s. That means that your body will stay put but your mind will travel to wherever Castiel is at the moment. You’ll be tethered to your body but be careful--if that tether snaps then you’ll have no way to make it back to your body. And you’ll have to figure out a way to shove Castiel back in his body, which means that you’ll have to snap the binding spell on him.” 

“Well how do I do that?” 

Rowena tuts in disapproval. “Do you think I know? I looked all through Octavia’s work. It’s a nasty spell for sure, but she did reverse it. If that didn’t work then there’s nothing that I can teach you.” She must read the murder on Dean’s face because her expression softens. “My guess would be that it needs to be broken by Castiel himself. Somehow, he’s going to have to snap the bindings. That’s the only way you’re going to get him back, Grace, body, and mind.” 

“You know, just once I wish that magic was as easy as it looks like on TV,” Dean mutters. 

Rowena pats him solicitously on the shoulder. “What show have you been watching dear? It’s always difficult.”

After that, Rowena goes off to prepare, leaving Dean with the unenviable task of luring Cas downstairs. In the end, it’s easy: all he has to do is ask. Cas, the poor little bastard, hasn’t been in the world long enough to learn suspicion. All he knows is that Sam and Mary like Dean, and, after the first day, Dean hasn’t been overly threatening towards him. Knowing what comes next, the unassuming trust is almost enough to crack Dean's heart. 

Cas doesn’t even look worried when Dean leads him all the way down to the basement, or when Dean locks the door behind them. He looks around with a mild curiosity, blue eyes taking in every detail. 

Rowena finishes tracing a sigil on the floor and stands up as they enter. “Now you,” her hands flutter over Cas’s shoulders, “sit down right here, and you Dean, sit opposite him.” They do so. Rowena lights a match and throws it into the silver bowl sitting in the middle of the symbol. She moves off to the side, where her book and spell await.

“Look at each other,” Rowena intones, her voice soothing. “Peer into the eyes. The eyes are the doorways to the mind. Look in.” Cas obeys, not a hint of suspicion or fear on his face and Dean has the crazy belief that maybe he _knows_. Maybe he senses that his time has come to an end. Because either way--after this he’s not going to be around anymore. 

Rowena's chants the words of the spell and Dean's eyelids become heavy. “Dean, think of what you want and reach out with your mind. There’s a silver thread, running through the worlds. See it. Grab it.” 

Think of what you want. Right. 

Dean thinks of Castiel, bursting into a barn, sparks flying all around him. He thinks of Cas, his friend, stinking of a distillery but still trying to help, even after he'd given up faith in everything. He thinks of Cas, standing in the circle of holy fire, so righteous and so broken, his eyes pleading for Dean to please, understand. Cas, broken after taking on Sam's pain and yeah, Cas did it for Sam but Dean knows that Cas also did it for him. Cas in Purgatory, keeping watch so that Dean could grab a snippet of sleep every so often, Cas as a human...Thousands of memories flip through his mind but none of them seem right, none of them ignite and catch. 

Cas, one morning in the bunker, standing by the coffee maker and peering at it suspiciously, like it was an unfathomable mystery. He looked more rumpled than usual, hair a little more flyaway, as he poured himself and Dean a mug. Dean sipped it, even though the coffee tasted like ass, smiled at Cas over the rim of his mug and had the sudden thought _Yeah, I could get used to waking up like this_. 

The thread snaps into place, curling between him and the kid. Dean reaches out with his mind and the thread hooks. 

Dean feels a tug somewhere behind his navel and Rowena’s voice rises in cadence as she continues her chant. Smoke swirls all around him, almost choking him with the thick fragrance. The tug comes again, harsher than before. Dean looks into Cas’s eyes, the vacant, summer-sky blue, and swallows. 

The tug comes once more, pulling insistently. “Well, catch you on the flip side,” Dean murmurs, before everything goes dark. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for it being short--I had to cut it short otherwise the next one would be a monster of a chapter, plus I wanted to get something out.


	11. tap into what you were once

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hopes, prayers, and grace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoo-hoo! Thanks for everything guys. There's one more chapter left in this wacky ride!

~*~*~*~*~*~*

Darkness, full and complete. There is no way to tell whether his eyes are open or shut or even which way is up or down. He has the uncomfortable feeling of floating, being untethered from gravity. The only sure thing is the thin thread still wrapped around him, anchoring him back to his body. 

Everything is pitch black--not just the murk of night but true black, with no streetlights or stars to break up the unending gloom. The click of his throat as he swallows echoes in the emptiness, feeble and the only sign of life. Dean sucks in a shaky breath. Once he feels sure that he’s not going to suffocate, he licks his lips and tries for a weak “Cas?”

His voice falls flat across the vast expanse, almost like his call was smacked down, smothered, before it could reach the ears meant to hear it. Instead of scaring Dean, it just serves to piss him off. He shouts, again, his lungs screaming with the effort, “Castiel! Castiel, show yourself!” 

Still nothing and after he shouts Cas’s name out three, four, five times, Dean starts to think that maybe this was a fool’s errand after all. Then, as he whirls around, he catches the slight gleam of light. It’s faint, blink and you miss it...but it’s something, in this vast expanse of nothing. 

Seconds, or maybe hours, pass as Dean tries to run towards the light. Here, time and distance don’t hold much sway and gravity seems to be more of a suggestion than a rule. Swimming through the black, he finally reaches the disturbance and looks down. 

He was right. It’s light but it’s faint and it flickers in and out of existence, almost like it’s hidden or trying to hide. He stares. The longer he looks, the more he feels a familiar tug, like sliding into Baby after a long day, like shrugging into his favorite flannel. Before he can think better of his choices, Dean reaches out to touch it, frowning when his hand meets a barrier. He maps out the invisible structure, his hands tracing a dome shape. Beneath it, the golden light flares nervously. 

“Cas?” Dean asks, barely daring to hope. “Castiel?”

The golden light glows with a sudden brilliance and Dean’s heart catches in his chest. “Cas, is that you?” 

The light stretches up to the top of the barrier to brush against him with the slenderest of tendrils. The second that light presses against the dome, a thousand impossible memories rush through Dean--galaxies and volcanoes, lights shattering underneath the presence of the divine, the brush of fingers against his shoulder, the rustle and flap of wings, gentle thud of a borrowed heart. 

“Cas,” Dean says, his voice thick in his throat and it should be impossible that he could cry in the void but here he is, eyes burning and throat thick. 

“Cas, I’m here but you gotta help me man, you’ve got to start pulling yourself together. I’m...Please. Help me.” 

His hands press into the barrier. The more he touches it, the more Dean starts to recognize it--How could he not, when his own emotions reflect back at him, recognizing him with a content hum? All of his grief, his hope, his anger, his betrayal, his loneliness, and Dean didn’t even realize what he was pouring into his prayers until he runs his hand over it and feels the tangible proof with his own hands, but his love, his _love_ , threaded through everything, even his rage. 

A dry sob chokes its way out of Dean’s throat and he rests his forehead on the shell of prayers. His lips tingle as they brush against them. “Cas. Cas, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything and I promise, when we get out of here I’m going to be better all right? I can promise you, that I’m going to do everything different and...Jesus, I’ll try to make you so damn happy. But right now, you need to come with me.” The tendril of light grows stronger and Dean can feel its warmth underneath his hands. Somehow, without being told, he understands what he has to do. 

He remembers, what Cas told him once long ago-- _Names have power Dean. If you call my name, no matter where I am, I will hear it and come to you_. 

Everything in him, his memories, his emotions, his hopes, Dean strips it all away and pours into the prayers until he’s empty and overflowing all at the same time--When he can’t take it anymore, when he’s scraped raw and filled to bursting, he whispers one word into the light-- “Castiel.” 

The light blazes with a sudden fierceness. 

Dean watches as the light races through the prayers--absorbing them, he realizes, his heart pounding in his chest. “Come on Cas, that’s it,” he whispers. His pupils are burning with the overload but he can’t look away, not from this. 

Brighter and brighter, until it’s like staring at the sun--Dean remembers Pamela, her eyes burnt out of her skull and then thinks, ridiculously, _Cas would never hurt me like that_. He doesn’t look away, not even when the light bursts wide in a supernova, scalding Dean’s skin. 

Dean has to clench his eyes shut to clear the spots away from his vision. When he can finally see with some reliability, he blinks. The barrier is gone. Instead, golden light shimmers in front of him, curling in and around itself, stretching out into the blackness and returning to itself. 

“Cas?” Dean asks, voice thick. 

_De...Dean_? 

The sound echoes through Dean’s head. It’s soft, not like the voice that he’s used to at all, but goddamn it’s--

“Cas! Cas, it’s me, fuck it’s me--” Absurdly, he reaches out. His hand slices through the light but touching it fills Dean with warmth and familiarity, like falling into his mattress that remembers him. “Cas, I’m here to take you home.”

_Dean? You can’t...You shouldn’t be here_. 

And yeah, that’s a bit of a mood whiplash. “Fuck that Cas, now come on! We’re going home!”

_Dean...I’m not sure that I can. The spell...I can still feel its effects_. 

“We killed the witch Cas. Spell’s over.” 

_It’s still hooked into me. Even now….it’s trying to break me, compress me...Dean, you need to leave. If it hooks into you...you might not be able to get back_. 

“I ain’t leaving without you Cas. Get that through your thick skull.” There’s an awkward pause as Dean realizes that at this moment, Cas doesn’t have a skull. “Or whatever.” 

_Dean please! I don’t--I don’t want anything to happen to you on my account_. 

Frustration takes over. “So you’d think I’d be fine if I just left you alone? You think I’d actually be able to walk away? You have all of those prayers in you--Look through them! Look and tell me how something hasn’t already happened to me because of you!” 

Cas says nothing in return but as Dean watches, the light stops being an ephemeral shape. It starts to solidify and take on definite form. Dean watches, heart in his throat, as shoulders, legs, and arms start to emerge. After a few seconds, Cas stands in front of him, shaky and insubstantial, but there--the same as he was the first time Dean saw him, bursting through the doors of a barn, the same as when Cas pushed Dean behind him so that he could face down the Leviathan.Same as he was the last time Dean saw him, ready to take down a witch because she’d threatened to hurt him. 

“There you are,” Dean breathes, vulnerable and shaking. “Cas.” His name is a prayer unto itself. 

Cas blinks and his whole visage shivers. “Dean.” His voice is weak, but it’s his, gravel scraped over sandpaper. “You’ve risked so much to be here.”

“You’ll make it up to me later. Now what’s it going to take for you to leave? I need to say some funny words or what?”

Cas’s form shimmers. “I’m not...This is unprecedented for me. I don’t exist on a corporeal plane or perhaps even a metaphysical one. The spell scattered me...it took me weeks to pull myself back into the form which you originally saw.” 

Dean’s mind works because if his years have taught him anything, it’s that there’s always a solution. “But...you got stronger.” Dean’s eyes flick to Cas’s and it’s so simple to him. “When I gave you...you got stronger.”

Cas’s form flickers in alarm. “No. No Dean, you can’t be thinking--that’s essentially your essence and the amount that you would have to give me--it would drain you completely. It would be suicide. I can’t let you take that risk. Not for me.” 

Anger, born from desperation, blazes through him. “When are you going to understand that there’s not much that I wouldn’t do for you?” His fingers brush over Cas’s outline, everything he has at his fingertips. 

Cas can’t dodge and his eyes flutter shut as Dean pours himself into his shimmering image. His relief and joy at seeing Cas in that bathroom, clothes filthy from Purgatory but somehow there. His worry at Cas’s bleeding body, the simple gratitude for Cas during those times during that Apocalypse, when Dean couldn’t fathom a way to see past tomorrow….A thousand memories, a million moments and Dean gives them all to Cas. 

Afterwards, Dean staggers back. He’s tired, a bone-deep exhaustion but it’s a good kind of tired, the kind that comes when there’s actually a reward at the end of the day. He blinks, and looks around for Cas. Joy spikes through him when he catches sight of the angel.

Cas blinks at him, chest heaving up and down. His form is reassuringly solid, suit characteristically rumpled. His eyes meet Dean’s, disbelief, gratitude, worry, and fondness all directed at Dean. There are oceans within his eyes and later, Dean thinks that he wants to drown in them. 

“Dean,” Cas finally says and it must be some sort of angelic thing, that he could put a universe of meaning into that one name. “I want...I want to go with you--”

“So go with me!” Dean reaches out. This time, his fingers brush against flesh, solid and warm, Cas’s knuckles cracking underneath the pressure of how hard Dean holds on. “For once in your life Cas, please, be selfish! I can’t…” Dean’s voice cracks. He’d thought it would be enough, to let Cas see into some of the innermost part of him but emotions and memories need context. 

“When I thought you were gone, it was like someone had reached inside me and ripped out my lung. I couldn’t...I can’t breathe without you Cas, not right at least. I know that you think that we don’t need you or that I’d be better off without you but that, that’s bullshit. There ain’t no universe where I’m better off not having you around. And I tell you that I need you and I’m going to show you exactly how I need you, for every day for the rest of my life but right now, you need to do something for me.” Cas blinks at him, eyes wide and Dean barrels forward, riding this runaway train for all that it’s worth. “I need you to fight against whatever hold this spell has on you because I’m telling you man, I’m not leaving you behind. So you’re either coming with me or we’re both staying down here.” 

Cas smiles, a mangled, hurt thing brimming with hope. “That is blackmail,” he finally says.

Dean could almost laugh. “Yeah. Yeah I know. You can beat me up for it when we get back.” 

Cas’s eyes shut. “I cannot...Dean, there are so many other, better, stronger guardians for you, so many other options for you to take…”

Dean snarls because when is this idiot going to get the idea? Cas already knows the whole of him, every nasty, dark thing that he tried to keep hidden and it’s still not enough. There’s only one option left. 

“We are getting out of here. And I don’t care what other guardians are out there, if it’s an archangel or freaking Batman...For me, it’s you Cas. It’s always been you.” 

And before Dean can talk himself out of it, before he can second-guess, he reaches out and wraps his fingers around Cas’s wrists. Cas looks at him, startled, but Dean doesn’t give him a chance to pull away or speak before he tugs him forward and crushes his lips to Cas’s. 

As far as first kisses go, it’s awful and awkward. Cas is stiff and unyielding underneath him and their teeth clack together hard enough to make Dean’s skull ache. But it’s Cas and it’s been years, and fuck it all, it’s Cas, here with him now--A low, helpless groan escapes Cas as he suddenly softens and tilts his head. Their lips slot back into place, and with them, the world.

Cas’s lips are chapped. How has Dean lived for so long without knowing this? His lips are chapped and so ridiculously soft, and his sharp nose brushes up against Dean’s cheek. Dean releases Cas’s wrist, moves one hand to hold Cas’s jaw steady so that he can lick into Cas’s mouth.. His other hand winds through Cas’s hair, tugging gently at the dark strands. Cas makes a tiny noise in the back of his throat. Dean swallows it. 

Dean holds Cas’s head between his hands, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones, his temples, over his wet, swollen lips. He can’t stop pressing short kisses to the corner of Cas’s mouth, his eyelids, his forehead.. He presses another kiss to Cas’s lips, his chest expanding at the blissed out look on Cas’s face as he just stands there and takes it. Cas’s hands are curled around Dean’s wrists, his thumbs tracing over the lines of veins just under the skin.

“I ain’t leaving you,” Dean says between kisses. His fingers move to Cas’s hair, burrowing deep so that he can scrape his fingernails against his scalp. Cas murmurs in delight, his eyes fluttering closed. “I ain’t leaving you so you gotta come with me.” 

“Yes, yes,” Cas pants, turning his head so that his lips brush against the bolt of Dean’s jaw. “Yes--” 

With a gasp, Cas stiffens in Dean’s arms. Dean automatically tightens his grip, fear seizing his heart as his arms close around nothing. Cas’s form is dissipating as he returns to his previous translucent state. “Dean,” Cas chokes, and there’s terror in his eyes as Dean’s horror reflects back at him. “Dean, the spell--” 

And maybe it’s because Dean’s poured so much of himself into Cas. Maybe it’s because of where they are, or just how close they’re standing together, but for the first time, Dean can finally see this bitch of a spell. Sickly purple chords of magic wind themselves through Cas’s body and grace alike, digging further into him with barbed hooks. He can see how deep they’re sunk into Cas, how even now they’re still trying to strangle him and split him apart. 

“Cas, you have to fight it,” Dean pleads, futilely trying to hold onto Cas. “Please, not when we’re this close.” 

“Dean, you have to leave,” Cas chokes out, his voice thick with pain. “This spell...it’ll turn on you next, you have to get out here, now.”

“Not without you!” Cas looks at him, eyes shining, terrified and brave. And Dean loves him, he loves him so _goddamn much_ …

There’s not much of him left to give but what little there is, he sends towards Cas. He’s scraping the barrel but it seems to work as his fingers wrap around Cas’s wrist, his solid wrist--

Everything--his guilt over Mom, his respect for his father, his devotion to Sam, his gratitude towards Bobby, his affection for Ellen and Jo and Kevin and Charlie and everyone else that they lost along the way-- _Not you_ , he thinks fiercely at Cas, _Not you, never you_ \--He tightens his hold on Cas, body and mind, fingers closing in a bruising grip against Cas’s wrist. 

He has just enough time to feel triumphant before the pain drives him to his knees. 

Dean loses his hold of Cas as he struggles to draw a breath. Razors slice into him with every move. Dean coughs and tastes blood. “What...no,” he wheezes, clutching at his chest as he falls backwards. 

He can see them. The same hooks that were in Cas dig into his body, burrowing deeper all the time. They twist and turn, ripping flesh away with them. How had Cas even managed to stand upright with this kind of pain ripping through him? 

From a distance, he can hear Cas’s voice, undone. His name, ripped out of those vocal chords, raw and bleeding. He’s never heard Cas like that, never wanted to hear Cas like that. 

“Dean! Dean, no, no, _please_ …” 

Hands cradle his body, swipe over his forehead. “Please Dean, please look at me--”

Dean obeys. How could he refuse? 

Cas’s eyes are wide and terrified. He looks so lost and Dean aches to reassure him but he can’t, not with blood dribbling out his mouth and his breath coming out in ever shorter pants. 

Cas’s hands hold his head, so gently. “Dean.” The effort that it takes Cas to restrain his voice is visible. “Dean, you have to break the connection.” 

Dean rasps out a question. “What you gave to me, the bond you made--you have to break it. Creating the bond left you vulnerable to the spell. The only way that you can break free is to break the bond.”

It takes a second for the words to coalesce together. Break the bond--Leave Cas…”No,” Dean snarls, hands landing in weak blows against Cas’s shoulders. “I told you, I ain’t leaving without you.”

Cas laughs, a wild, brittle sound torn from the depths of hell. He tucks his body around Dean’s, as if that could protect him, presses a shaking kiss to his damp forehead. 

Dean tries to feel it, but he’s already so far gone.

 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

Castiel holds Dean in his arms and watches his world shatter around him. 

For that one brief moment...eons of existence had been validated and every sacrifice, every agony, had been worth it, just to feel Dean’s body against his, to see the joy alight in Dean’s eyes and know that it was all for him. 

And now…

He’d been able to see it in himself--the ropes binding and compressing and then, once the spell had started its final stages, the vicious hooks spearing through flesh and Grace, ripping and shredding. He knows intimately, the kind of pain that comes with that kind of witchcraft, how it feels to have your soul ripped to nothing, until it takes away your body and every part of you, until all that’s left is a smear. Almost less than a memory. 

It had been agonizing to experience. It’s worse to watch. 

He tries to hide it but Castiel knows, he can _see_. Hooks tear into Dean, his human flesh and soul so much more vulnerable than Castiel’s. Castiel scrabbles at the bond between him and Dean and tries to tear it apart--far better that he should fade and become nothing more than a memory--but it’s too strong, Dean is still holding onto it, still giving of himself so that Cas isn’t torn apart. Spending precious energy maintaining a tether to something which is determined to kill him. 

“Dean, _please_ ,” Castiel chokes, his forehead pressed hard against Dean’s. He has never begged in his existence, not once but he begs now, throws out prayers to whoever is listening--God, Dean, even Rowena, back in the physical plane _Please end the spell save him, please SAVE HIM_. 

Nothing answers and Castiel chokes back his horror. Dean grits his teeth but a little grunt of pain manages to escape. Castiel curls his fingers tighter in Dean’s shirt, bruising the flesh underneath. Like he could will this away, if only he held on tighter. 

“Cas.” Dean’s voice comes from far away, choked and thick. It might be the pain. It might be the blood rising in his lungs. “Cas, I ain’t sorry, you hear me? It’s not your fault. I knew this might happen--”

A hand, Dean’s hand, slick with sweat and blood, rough with calluses, cups his cheek and forces him to look down. Castiel hates Dean for the tenderness, for the small smile tugging at Dean’s lips. Those lips which he...How is he expected to endure eternity now that he knows exactly the taste and feel of those lips? 

“I ain’t sorry,” Dean rasps, smiling impossibly. His fingers curl around the back of Castiel’s neck, thumb stroking the soft place just in front of his ear. Castiel has been an Angel of the Lord, has been God, but he has never been this close to bursting at the seams from something divine. 

Dean’s hand falls away, leaving a smear of blood behind. 

“Dean! Dean!” Castiel shakes Dean’s limp body once. Dean’s head lolls against him, lifeless. 

“No. _No_.” Castiel was willing to accept his own demise, had expected nothing less from the first time he turned his back on Heaven, but to lose Dean? To lose Dean to this? 

His first urge, as always, is to look towards Heaven for some sign of salvation, some acknowledgement of their pain. But the skies remain closed and Castiel remains abandoned and Dean remains lifeless. 

The spell continues to squeeze around Dean and Castiel tries to rip it away but it doesn’t work any better this time than it did the others. There’s so little life left in Dean now--his heart, valiant little thing, is struggling as best it can but it’s fighting a losing battle. 

“I will not let you die,” Castiel murmurs, giving into his very human urge, and pressing a fierce kiss to Dean’s sweat-damp forehead. “I promise, I’m going to get you out of here.”

The prayers. They were the key. The prayers and the memories and emotions behind them. What was essentially Dean’s essence, funneled into Cas. If he could find a way to reverse that... 

“Of course.” Castiel closes his eyes, feels a swift burst of grief-- _Oh, the life we could have lived, you and I, Dean Winchester_ \--but it’s worth it. If Dean gets to live, then it will be worth it in the end. 

He’s never told Dean but Castiel misses flying. Of course, it wasn’t flying as the humans thought of it: there was very little flapping of wings. It was more the ability to fold himself between space and time, tuck himself through the fabric of the dimension, but it was his and he misses the freedom of it. 

Castiel draws on millennia of experience. He remembers the swift, hopeless dive into Hell, how his wings were tucked tight against him and still they burned. How they flared in escape, once he had Dean’s soul tucked in his arms, how they beat back the armies of Hell and burst wide, breaking through the surface and back into the world once more. He feels his Grace stirring to the memories and he ruthlessly presses onward. 

The creation and destruction of mountain ranges, watching the stars and planets wink into existence. Painting the skies with thunderstorms and lightning bolts, bathing the world fresh and new with rainbows. How he watched the first humans stand upright, impossibly strong and frail on their two legs. 

Warmth curls around his fingers, Grace sluggishly trying to fulfill his demands. It’s confused, unsure of what he wants, but Castiel alternately coaxes and demands until he can feel power flowing through him once more. He digs deeper, looking for anything that will bring more power, bring Dean back. 

Watching humanity for centuries, always at the sidelines. So many times he saw them fail. He’d thought there was nothing good in humanity, only evil, weakness, and misguided sentiment but then...The descent into Hell, his wings tucked close as he dove towards the darkest depths. Seeing the tattered remains of a soul, seeing the light that still feebly struggled against the fire and darkness. Holding a soul cupped in his hand while he rebuilt the body. Carving flesh out of nothingness, breathing life. The sudden pang of loss as the body reclaimed the soul. 

And then. _Dean_. Centuries upon centuries, and Dean is only a blip on the page but he is the most important part. Dean’s eyes, blazing in self-righteousness as he finally causes an angel to fall. Dean’s unthinking acceptance, his harsh forgiveness. His rage. His sacrifice. Dean, the first time they were face to face, so brave, so battered, lip curled as he pushed a knife into Castiel’s chest. It pierced his vessel’s heart and, drawing from his knowledge of human literary conventions, Castiel thinks that there’s a metaphor somewhere in that encounter. 

Heat blazes at his fingertips and he pushes it into Dean’s body. Dean gasps as his eyes fly open. He grabs at Castiel’s wrist but Castiel is an angel. He does not move unless he chooses to. “Cas, the hell are you doing?” Dean asks. Though his voice is rough, it lacks the shredded edge from earlier. Castiel dares to look at Dean’s chest to check the progression of the spell. The hooks are receding from flesh, the ropes loosening their hold. 

“It’s worth it Dean,” he says, holding Dean tighter. “You must trust me, this will all be worth it in the end.”

He digs deeper, searching for nuggets of truth. Dean gave him everything, gave up everything to him. Castiel can return the favor. 

The strange sense of belonging he found with Dean and Sam. He’d always had brothers and sisters but, sitting there with those two humans, for the first time Castiel felt like he had a family. How, even in the midst of an Apocalypse, Dean’s smile made something foreign and wild stir within Castiel. 

Castiel does not consider himself foolish. From the second his Grace touched Dean’s soul, he’d known that he was somehow, irrevocably lost. He’d tried to deny it, tried to put distance between himself and Dean but he’d known, standing in that cemetery, ready to die, all for the hope that Dean had given him--this was it. 

“Cas, the hell are you doing?” Dean asks, voice and grip stronger. Castiel ignores him. Inside his body, he can almost hear the screams of victory as the ropes wrap tighter around him, able to squeeze tighter without his Grace to protect him. He ignores that too, pushes deeper into his memories. 

At the very end, this is what he can give to Dean--the truth of him, small gems dug up and offered with bleeding fingers. If this is all that he can give, he might as well give Dean everything.

His hubris, born from good intentions, but shattering everything in its wake. By the time he realized what he’d done he was too late to turn around and always he had the same thought: _This is for Dean, this is to save Dean, they don’t deserve another Apocalypse_... He’d saved them from the Apocalypse. Instead, he’d given them Purgatory. 

Dean is able to sit up now. Castiel notices that the spell seems to have left Dean almost entirely. All that remains are faint, wispy shreds of magic and even these fade away as he watches. 

Castiel smiles, weak as the spell begins its final stages. So much of his Grace is gone into Dean and there’s no time to wait for more… “Go home Dean,” he rasps, trembling fingers tracing the angry lines of Dean’s face. 

Dean opens his mouth to argue but Castiel has no time. Without him to consume, the spell will undoubtedly try to return to familiar territory. Dean has to leave, now. “Go Dean!” he shouts, pushing at him. 

Dean looks at him, aghast, but then his face falls. “I can’t,” he says, wrecked and scared. 

Stronger than the pain, horror strikes at Castiel. “What?” he asks, speaking around the thick taste of blood in his mouth. “Dean, please, don’t stay, you have to leave now--” His time is measured in minutes. 

“I can’t! Even if I wanted to--I guess...I guess the spell snapped the tether. There’s...I can’t feel anything to get me back.” 

If he had the strength, Castiel would rage. To come all this way, bare so much of himself, for _nothing_? To have Dean die here anyway? 

Dean smiles, sad and broken, as he sweeps his hand over Castiel’s forehead. “I’m still alive because of you, right?” Castiel doesn’t answer. He can taste the blood pooling in his mouth, feel his body deteriorating without the protection of his Grace. “You gave me everything you had.” 

“A small price to pay,” Castiel says, speaking carefully so that nothing gets lost, “for everything you have given me.” He touches Dean with numb fingertips, traces over the lines of his jaw, his lips, his throat. He seeks out the pulse beating at the corner of Dean’s jaw, chases the bob of his throat as he swallows. 

Fury builds him, slow and churning, as Dean closes his eyes. It is not fair, not _right_ that Dean should end like this. 

An idea forms. At first Castiel shrinks from it. If they fail then they won’t have to worry about wasting away here in this prison--they’ll both be burned from the inside out. It’s reckless to the point of suicide, but really, what choice do they have? 

Dean gave so much of himself to Castiel. He has to give him every chance to survive. 

“Kiss me,” Castiel murmurs, clenching his fists to counteract the waves of pain racking his body. 

Dean startles, an incredulous look coming to his eyes as he looks over at Castiel. “You’ve got your priorities straight, don’t you?” 

“Dean, please.” Castiel breathes through his nose, clenching his teeth on a shout of pain. Time is running out and if he is destined to end here, he would rather end on this one moment of bliss. 

Dean’s lips are softer this time, as they press against his and Castiel takes his time to memorize each facet of them. The push of soft flesh against his, the faint bite of teeth against his lower lip as Dean draws it into his mouth. The slick slide as Castiel tentatively opens his mouth to Dean’s questing tongue. The rough scrape of stubble against his skin, the hot twist of pleasure in his gut as Dean cups the back of his head in one hand. 

Castiel can feel the Grace in Dean’s body rising in response to his nearness. He beckons to it and it answers. He draws on that, draws on the strength of the bond thrumming through them both. Warmth spreads through his body and even the pain fades in the face of it. Castiel kisses Dean harder, swallowing his question before Dean can ask it. 

It all swirls together in his mind: the pain, the spell, the Grace, the bond--Castiel holds Dean tight to him, gasping against his mouth at the power of it all. He tries to control it but it’s quickly spiraling out of his grasp, coiling tightly around itself. Castiel can only channel the power, feeling it curl up inside him. It reminds him of the moment just before free-fall, where gravity ceases to exist, except this isn’t falling, this is rising--

The power spirals up, up, up, until Castiel pants against Dean’s mouth, shaking from the strain of it all. Dean pulls away, suspicion narrowing his eyes. Even he, with his limited perception, is able to sense the power coiling around the two of them. 

Castiel is barely able to control it but still he draws on more, more, _more_ \--Something inside him snaps, and he pulls away from Dean, head flung back towards where the heavens should be. More and more, tighter and tighter--Dean’s voice calls to him, demands to know what’s happening but Castiel cannot answer him--

The moment ends and gravity takes hold. 

“Close your eyes,” Castiel cries, as he finally loosens his grip. “Dean, shut your eyes, shut your eyes!” Blindly, he grabs for him, but it’s Dean’s hand which closes around his wrist, his fingers digging in deep to his flesh. 

More and more and more and more until...Release.

The never ending dark is bathed in pure, blinding light as Castiel screams with the effort of keeping the blast channeled. Dean’s body is next to his, his hand clamped around his wrist and Castiel continues to draw on that point of contact. In the midst of the explosion Castiel searches through Dean, hoping beyond hope--

There. A thread, almost frayed beyond repair but still--

Castiel latches onto that last hope, grabs tight for everything that he’s worth--It’s futile to hope but he still does and maybe God does answer prayers because, for the first time in years, his wings, _his wings_ , unfurl from his back…

With a defiant howl, Castiel launches them both into the explosion. 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

Dean’s body feels like it was just run over by a goddamned truck. 

He aches in places that he didn’t know it was possible to ache. The back of his knees hurt. He’s aware of his fingers in a way that he normally isn’t. He moans weakly, scrubbing at his eyes. They hurt too, like someone shone a flashlight into his retinas for about four hours. 

It’s the memory of the light which jolts Dean upright. His heart kicks into hyperdrive as the memories crash back into him--the darkness, the light, Cas, the kiss, the spell and the pain, and _Cas_ \--

It takes Dean’s eyes a moment to adjust to the dim lighting of the basement. When they do he spares a moment to let the shock set in: it looks like an explosion’s just occurred. All the shelves have been blown backwards and several papers are still drifting down to cover the floor. Rowena’s supplies are in similar shape and there’s no sign of the witch herself. Dean takes all this in with one look but he only has eyes for one thing: Castiel’s body, on the other side of the room. 

Dean’s legs won’t support him so he crawls. “Please, please,” he says, the prayer half-formed but no less heartfelt for that. 

Castiel, the real Castiel, lies motionless on the floor. His eyes are closed and his hand is limp on the floor. Dean’s breath catches in his throat. 

“Cas, Cas, come on, come on....” Cas remains motionless, his head lolling as Dean shakes him. “No, no, Cas, please--” To come so far, to share so much--It can’t all have been in vain. Not even their lives are that cruel. 

But Cas doesn’t move, not even when Dean grabs his shoulders and shakes him roughly. 

“No, you son of a bitch, don’t you dare--” He’s not stupid, he knows that Cas was full and ready to sacrifice himself and his Grace if it meant that Dean would free from the spell but he’d thought--For a split-second, before the light had grown too powerful and Dean had shut his eyes, he’d seen...It’s been a while but Dean would be willing to put money that those were Castiel’s wings spreading their shadow across him. 

“Cas, Castiel, please…” He’s not even ashamed of how his voice breaks as he pleads. “Cas--”

Blue eyes fly open as Cas gasps in a shuddering breath. Dean’s heart thuds in his chest, painful as it tries to escape. Cas breathes in again, steadier this time. Drawn by an inexplicable force, like a compass seeking north, his eyes find Dean’s. 

“Dean?” he asks, his voice rasping in its familiar growl. Dean chokes out a laugh as he reaches out with a shaking hand. 

Cas’s stubble is as rough as he would expect it to be and his body is warm. Dean reverently traces the lines of his face, down to his throat. Castiel lies compliant under his touch, an unspeakable emotion brimming in his eyes as he watches Dean’s every move. Dean can’t stop the sloppy smile stretching his face as he moves down Cas’s shoulder, the hard lines of his body almost obscured by the baggy fabric of his coat. Down his arm, down to his wrists, incongruously delicate. 

Dean stops when he feels puffy skin underneath his fingertips. He pushes up the cuffs of Cas’s shirt to get a better look and pauses. 

“What?” Cas asks. He sounds dazed. 

Instead of answering, Dean lifts Cas’s arm so that he can see. Marring the skin around his right wrist are five lines, which correspond exactly to Dean’s fingers. 

It’s not often that Dean sees Cas at a loss but he can recognize it when it happens. Cas blinks once and then again as his head tilts curiously on the floor. A tiny hum rumbles up from his chest as Cas turns his hand to run along Dean’s jaw. 

“Dean,” he says simply, like that word contains the secrets to the universe. Maybe it does.

Who the hell knows? They just escaped with literally nothing more than hopes and prayers. 

Dean collapses, but slowly, gracefully. Castiel’s chest is solid underneath his cheek and it rises and falls in predictable rhythm. His heartbeat is a welcome thud against Dean’s ear and he thinks that maybe he could set the world by its tempo. Cas’s hand is unspeakably gentle as it cards through his hair. 

Dean turns his face into Cas’s chest, unable to bear the bright feeling searing through him. “Welcome back,” he murmurs into the fabric of Cas’s shirt. 

He doesn’t even need to ask if Cas heard him. 

Cas always hears him.


	12. a love divine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lullaby every night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are at the end! And now that we've reached it, I don't feel as though I've done this story near the amount of justice that I should have, but oh well. Everyone has regrets, I guess. 
> 
> I may be tempted to dabble around in this verse at some point in the future, but that's all it will be.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Sam returns to find a madhouse in the bunker. 

In retrospect, he should have expected it. He’d known, in the back of his mind, that there was a reason that Dean had been moving around the bunker with such purpose when, for the past two months, he’d been little more than a ghost moping around the hallways. Then, like magic, Dean had started being a real person again, participating in real people activities. And that job with Mom this morning and then his pissy bitch act? All right, the signs were all there and Sam was either willfully ignorant or too caught up in his own spiral of misery and guilt to read them properly. 

Either option is bad: the first implies that he knew that Dean was going to do something stupid and he allowed him to do so, the second says that Sam is just as bad at Dean at dealing with his feelings. 

Sam pushes the last lingering bits of guilt and anger to the back of his mind. With Cas back to his regular self and Dean smiling like an idiot, it isn't difficult. 

He came back to the bunker, anticipating Dean drowning himself in a miasma of whiskey and stale fast food, god knows what would have happened to the kid. Instead, he finds Dean, Cas, and Rowena in the kitchen of the bunker, having, if not a friendly beer, then at least a conspiratorial one. 

Three pairs of eyes turn to him as he enters. Rowena looks immensely pleased with herself, even as she sips probably the cheapest alcohol she’s tasted in 300 years. Dean looks like he would feel guilty for tricking Sam if he could muster either the energy or enough fucks. Mostly, Dean looks like kids in the movies that Sam has seen, coming down the stairs on Christmas morning--dazed, and bewildered, but still humming with a current of happiness and wonder. 

Cas looks...well, he looks like Cas. Mostly impassive, with just a hint of grumpy. Mildly perplexed the longer Sam stares at him. He sits at the table, a half-empty beer in his hand, condensation dripping down his fingers, and acts like he never left. There’s something vaguely triumphant in the wrinkles of his tie. 

“Would you care for one?” Cas finally asks, inclining his head towards the 6-pack sitting on the table. 

There’s so many things that Sam wants to say. The look in Cas’s eyes almost dares him to but all Sam can do is hold his hand out and receive a lukewarm beer. He pops the top off and drinks regardless. Cas’s eyes radiate approval and if Dean looks any soppier then he’s just going to melt into a puddle right there on the floor. 

“American draft beers,” Rowena says, setting the bottle back on the table. “Amazing how this country hasn’t been taken over yet.” 

“Don’t judge. Your people like to eat sheep guts.” 

Rowena glares at Dean, who smiles at her around the lip of his beer bottle. Cas watches the scene silently, but with this kind of quiet glow. He might as well be grinning ear to ear. Sam takes a sip of his beer and smiles to himself. They might be a weird group of drinking buddies, but they’re _his_ group of drinking buddies and for now, that’s more than enough. 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-

The aura of bonhomie lasts long into the night. Rowena eventually leaves, but not until she’s thoroughly investigated almost every inch of Castiel. Halfway through, Sam starts to suspect that her examination is a little less about checking for Cas’s well-being and a little bit more about exploiting the opportunity to feel Cas up and piss Dean off at the same time. Rowena's all about conserving effort. 

“So, you're back to normal?” Sam asks, trying to distract Dean’s attention away from Rowena’s fingers drifting gently over Cas’s jaw. 

Cas’s eyes slant towards him. “I am as I was before. No more, no less.” His eyes flick to Dean then, the heavy glance between them sharing more than words ever could. Sam knows he's never going to get the whole story. He got the outline, the sanitized details, but he knows there's plenty that went unsaid. He hides a smile at Dean’s growl as Rowena unbuttons Cas’s shirt sleeve and rolls it up. 

Sam notices the bright red marks circling Cas’s wrist. How can he not? It’s unmistakably a handprint. Sam viscerally remembers a mirror image of that mark circling Dean's bicep. He shoots a glance to Dean, who returns it, but instead of the quick look-away Sam expects, Dean meets his eyes and Sam is the first to look away. Interesting. 

He’ll never get the whole story of what happened between Dean and Cas, but somehow, he doesn’t need it. They’re back and that’s enough. 

Rowena hums to herself as she runs her hands over Cas’s face, through his hair, down his shoulders--Dean finally reaches the limits of his patience and drags her away. 

“We’ll call you if we need anything else,” he says. Rowena smiles, inexplicably drops two air-kisses to Dean’s cheeks and glides up the stairs. Sam watches her go, still slightly gobsmacked by the whole encounter. 

Cas looks benevolently at them. “It was kind of her to help.” 

Dean glowers but he can’t muster up his usual venom. In fact, Sam has never seen him glare so benevolently. “Probably robbed us blind while she was here. We’ll need to do an inventory. While we’re at it, we’ll need to re-do the wardings so that--”

“Unsavory people don’t stop by?” 

Sam jumps. He hates the reaction but hates it a little less when he sees Dean startle out of the corner of his eye. He calms his racing heart before turning around. 

Crowley lurks in the corner of the kitchen, which is really just a ridiculous place for the King of Hell to lurk. 

Dean’s narrowed eyes lose some of their calm and for that alone, Sam wants to punch the demon. Crowley remains unphased. Instead, he cranes his head past the two Winchesters to light on Castiel. 

“Castiel,” he greets, ignoring the stony stare the angel gives in return. “Glad to see you’re back to your normal, much less fun state.” 

“Was there a particular reason that you stopped by?” It’s a strange sort of angel that can be calm and even seem to enjoy Rowena’s prodding but respond to a demon’s polite questioning with hostility. 

“After all the help I’ve given you in recent months, I would say that I’m entitled. I’ve put forth a decent amount of effort into getting you back to this.” Crowley waves his hand at Cas, encompassing his everything. “Just wanted to make sure that my hard work didn’t go to waste.”

“Decide for yourself,” Cas growls, his left eyebrow creeping up to meet his hairline. 

“If the goal was improvement then we’ve vastly undershot the mark. But, if we wanted to return to our self-righteous, constipated state, then well done all around lads.” 

Dean sighs, gripping his beer tighter than the manufacturer would recommend. “Appreciate your help Crowley.” He bites the words out like each syllable costs him money. “Anything else?”

Crowley shrugs as he strolls up to the table. He idly runs his finger over one of the empties, lying on its side like a fallen soldier. “You’ll have drinkies with Mum and not with me? I’m hurt.” 

Sam’s mouth drops open. “Did you...did you want a beer?” He can’t believe the words that are coming out of his mouth but there they are nonetheless, where Crowley, Cas, and Dean can all hear them. 

Crowley’s smirk is louder than a laugh. “A drink of your warm two dollar draft? Pass, thank you. No, like I said, I just came to make sure that my investment paid off.” 

Castiel’s eyes narrow. Crowley’s not the only one who can speak multitudes with simple gestures. Crowley smiles in response and tips his head towards him. 

“Be seeing you Feathers. Boys.” With a short wave, he disappears from the kitchen.

An awkward silence stretches out for thirty seconds after he leaves, like they’re all afraid that Crowley might still be lingering, invisible, in the kitchen. Waiting for them to say something unkind about him, and then he’ll pop back into existence. Sam actually catches himself searching the dark corners of the kitchen, trying to spy an Armani suit behind the countertops. 

Dean breaks the silence with a loud sigh. “Awkward,” he says, chasing the lingering tension away by draining the rest of his beer. 

“Yeah,” Sam says, agreeing automatically. Dean’s right, it is awkward, but Crowley’s visit confirms something else that Sam suspected long ago--Crowley just... _likes_ Cas. No reason why, he just...likes him. 

Castiel takes a sip of his beer, and it’s a sip, like he’s actually savoring the cheapest possible beer that they could find at the gas station. When he sets the bottle down, he does so precisely, on a napkin, like he’s afraid of leaving a water ring on their decades old table. Sam fights back a smile as he watches Castiel lean back in his chair, more like he’s imitating someone he’s seen on TV rather than he’s actually trying to get comfortable. 

Sam thinks he can see where Crowley's coming from. 

The night continues. Mom comes home and surprises them all by wrapping her arms around Cas. Cas freezes before his arms come up to pat her once on the back. Sam swallows around the sudden tightness in his throat and politely looks away from the mistiness in Dean’s eyes. 

They sit around the table and drink their way through the beer and most of the whiskey. Sam’s head is swimming by the end of the night but it’s great, it’s wonderful. Growing up, he had so few moments when he knew that he was happy, and after he left Stanford he had even less. He knows to recognize these moments when they come, to take a snapshot and hold them close on cold nights. This right here, this sets off his alarms loud and clear. _This is your family. Here, in this moment, you are happy. Remember this_. 

So he drinks, and he laughs, and he makes bitchy comments when Dean leaves him an opening, which is more often than usual, almost like Dean’s inviting him to participate. Almost like Dean’s happy, with the people that he loves the most in the world surrounding him. He drinks and out of morbid curiosity, he watches Dean and Cas. 

They move carefully around each other. 

They’ve always moved carefully around each other but this is different. Previously, they moved like they were planets in opposing orbits, both terminally attracted but continuously repelling. Like they knew if they were ever to end up on the same track of motion that they would end up destroying each other. 

Now they move carefully like shiny new machine parts. Like gears that are still a little too rough to slot smoothly together. But also like they were intended to move in sync. 

It’s in the little things. Cas will hand Dean a glass without looking, placing it in Dean’s hand as he starts to reach. They move around each other in the kitchen but Dean’s hand lingers on Cas’s forearm, rubbing the fabric of his coat. The gesture looks involuntary but from the look in Cas’s eyes, Sam knows that it’s not. 

If Mom notices anything then she doesn’t mention it, but she does turn in after a few hours. Before she leaves she makes sure to touch each of them. Her fingertips trail across Sam’s shoulders and he catches her hand in his and squeezes. Reassurance, acknowledgement. _We are here. We were happy_. 

It’s different after Mom leaves. Not better, necessarily, but different. The three of them have been through hell, heaven, and purgatory together, and Sam knows, without questioning, that he would die for either of them and that they would die for him. More importantly, however, is the simple fact of what else they would do for each other. Dean would willingly call Crowley, Rowena, and Mom to help heal Cas. Sam is willing to overlook piles of cassette tapes of mullet rock just to see Dean smile. Cas eats with them and watches their movies, just so Sam and Dean can receive the simple pleasure of sharing something beloved with him. 

Maybe all the folk songs are right. Maybe love isn’t in the grand gestures but in the tiny, minute, daily details. Like Sam kicking Dean’s shin underneath the table, just because he can. Like Cas handing off his beer to Dean so that Dean can pop the lid. 

Sam stretches and cracks his neck. Any time that he starts comparing his life to a folk song means that he’s drunk too much. Besides, Sam can practically taste the anticipation in the air. It gets thicker every time Dean’s eyes slide over to Cas, every time Cas’s shirt sleeve rides up to reveal those marks around his wrist. 

“I’m gone,” he says, clapping Cas’s shoulder as he walks by him. Cas looks up to him and blinks, the corners of his mouth tilting up ever so slightly. 

“Thank you Sam,” he says, customary gravity in his voice. Cas might be thanking Sam for helping him when he was unable to help himself. Or, Sam thinks, with a shudder because it’s his brother and _gross_ , Cas might be thanking him for going to sleep and leaving him and Dean alone. _Yuck_. 

“Night you two.” He slaps Dean’s shoulder, extra hard, just because. They’ve had a good day and Dean looks entirely too smug at this moment. “Don’t do anything that I wouldn’t do.” He winks at Dean, his smile huge and obnoxious. 

“Yeah, well that leaves out everything other than shaving our legs and writing in our diaries!” Dean’s voice echoes out of the kitchen after him and Sam laughs to himself as he goes into his room. 

He’s got his family back and he’s going to sleep damn well tonight. Just to ensure that, he puts his earbuds in before sliding underneath the covers. No weird noises for him, please and thank you. 

Sam falls asleep with a smile on his face. 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

After Sam and Mom go to bed and leave just him and Cas in the kitchen, the mood changes. They’re still happy, Dean can’t stop himself from smiling like an idiot whenever he catches sight of Cas, but instead of the light-hearted frivolity of before, the air is thick and charged. Cas’s eyes are purposeful when they look at him and Dean hooks his boot behind Cas’s ankle, just to feel the press of his body. To keep his hands busy, he takes a sip of his beer, but he’s much more interested in how Cas’s eyes fall to his lips and hands. 

After another ten minutes filled with inane small talk and weighted silences, Dean coughs. “I’m going to--” This is so stupid, that after everything he’s done today, this is what he’s scared of, “I’m going to bed.” Cas blinks at him and son of a bitch, this little bastard’s really going to make him ask, isn’t he? “Are you coming?”

Cas blinks again. “I don’t sleep.”

Dean’s jaw clenches. “I know that, you tell me that about once every two--” Cas’s face twitches minutely and Dean stares. There’s a definite...That son of a bitch. Cas’s eyes are _twinkling_ like he’s the goddamn Santa Claus of asshole angels. “You...did you just try to joke with me?” 

“I believe that’s what I did, yes.” 

“Well…” Dean shakes his head as he tries to bite back his smile. “I’m going to bed.” 

He gets up from the table, waiting as the world realigns itself. He’s been drinking for a few hours and his body needs a moment. From behind, he hears the soft sound of a chair scraping against the concrete floor. Cas’s hand lands on his shoulder, not pressuring, just present. 

“Go,” Cas says, his low voice a promise and Dean almost scampers. 

He brushes his teeth twice, runs his tongue over his teeth and breathes into the cup of his hand. He winces and brushes once more. Somehow, the idea of falling asleep with the smell of beer and whisky clinging to his tongue is a little less appealing tonight than it would be normally. 

He spits into the sink one last time and stares in the mirror. His eyes look nervous in the reflection--nervous but happy. Even the bags under his eyes look lighter, like they’re thinking of packing bags of their own and going on vacation. _You earned it boys_ , he thinks, giddiness coursing through him and making him smile like he’s nineteen again. 

The smile fades as he looks down. Right. Going to bed entails getting dressed for bed, or undressed as the case might be. Normal people don’t sleep in their jeans and boots. Hell, Dean doesn’t sleep in his jeans and boots, if he’s in the bunker. It shouldn’t be a big deal. 

Except this time he’s getting undressed for a specific audience, for _Cas_ and it’s a big fucking deal. 

His hands shake as he slides his overshirt off his shoulders. He makes an attempt to actually throw it into the laundry basket, opposed to just letting it fall on the ground like he normally would. He unlaces his boots and places them neatly by the door. His socks fly into the basket and his jeans follow closely behind. 

The hair on his arms stands up in response to the cool air. Dean paces around the room, looks down at himself. He’s in a t-shirt and a pair of black boxers. Perfectly fine to sleep in. He paces around the room one more time, curses, and strides to his underwear drawer. He picks out another pair of shorts, sniffs them to be sure, before swiftly changing. Ridiculous, to worry about wearing a clean pair of underwear. Ridiculous. 

This is Cas. Cas has literally built him back up from scratch. He doesn’t have anything that the angel hasn’t seen before. 

But it matters. For reasons he can’t put his finger on, it matters a lot. 

A knock sounds on his door, so faint that Dean might have missed it, if his whole body weren’t yearning for the sound. 

For a moment he freezes. Should he try to arrange himself on the bed? He tries to imagine that for a second, him posed seductively, but all he can think of is _Paint me like one of your French girls_ and that is so not the vibe he’s going for. Should he put something else on? God forbid, take something else off? 

The knock sounds again, but more tentative this time. Dean wrenches open the door. 

Cas stands in the doorway. 

After his human stint, Dean had stocked some extra clothes in Cas’s bedroom. Until now, he hadn’t thought that Cas had known they were there. He would have been wrong because Cas is out of his suit and instead in a t-shirt and sweats. He looks...he looks like a regular guy coming to bed. 

“Can I come in?” Cas asks, oddly formal. 

Dean nods, mouth dry as he stands back from the door. Cas steps in, his eyes flicking over the room like he’s never seen it before. It’s only fair play--Dean’s eyes are traveling over his form like he’s never seen Cas before. 

And he hasn’t, at least not like this. Not dressed down, so that every shift and catch of his muscles is visible. Not with this posture: his spine straight but his shoulders slumped in, confident and hesitant all at the same time. Cas stands close to the chair, his hands tucked in the pockets of his sweats. It’s a weird stance for him to take. Oddly human. Dean watches his eyes flick towards bed before they drag back up to meet his. He wonders if he looks half as terrified as Cas does. 

He swallows and fights the urge to jump back into his jeans and flannel, just to have some extra layers of protection. Like this, he feels flayed, like Cas can see right to the heart of him. Which is stupid, because Cas has always been able to see right to the heart of him. From the first moment they laid eyes on each other, _You don’t think you deserve to be saved_ \--Cas has always been able to see through him. 

“Cas,” Dean whispers. Cas’s eyes flick towards him, question and promise. 

Dean walks closer to him and Cas’s chin tilts up in an oddly defiant gesture. “Cas,” Dean murmurs again, stepping closer, close enough to touch. From this close, he practically radiates warmth. The marks on his wrist, Dean’s handprint, stand out stark without the covering of his shirt, jacket, or coat to cover them. 

Dean trembles with need, with the strain of being so close and wanting to touch and holding himself back. Cas’s throat bobs on a swallow and Dean can’t hold back anymore. 

“Come _here_ ,” he says, voice breaking, the wave crashing over him and Cas moves. 

Dean shivers as those hands caress over his shoulders and down his arms, to his wrists and fingers and then back up again. Cas presses his lips to Dean’s temple, breathes raggedly in his ear. His hands roam over Dean’s back, sweeping up and down his spine in broad strokes. Dean’s hands follow suit, tracing over the sharp blades of Cas’s shoulders, mapping every knot of his spine, the dips between his ribs. 

Daring beyond anything he’s ever dreamed of, Dean drags his fingers down Cas’s side, sucking in a breath at how Cas’s skin twitches under his shirt. He reaches the hem of Cas’s shirt and pulls up, placing his hand firmly against warm skin. Cas gasps into his ear, warm breath puffing over the shell as Dean lays his hand flat against his side. Underneath his touch, Cas shudders like he’s been stung. 

Dean presses his lips to Cas’s pulse point, just under his jaw. Cas groans, tilts his head so that Dean can run his tongue over the rough skin, scrape his teeth over the thready beat. Cas’s hands land at his hips, gripping tight enough to bruise and Dean can’t--

“Cas, please,” he says, unsure of what he’s asking for until he feels the edge of the bed against his side. 

They topple over, landing facing each other on the bed. Dean rakes his eyes over Cas’s form, lingering on where his shirt rides up on his waist, revealing hips that look sharp enough to cut glass. Eventually, he winds his way back to Cas’s face, to where his mouth hangs open as he pants, to blown pupils and desperately mussed hair. 

“Christ,” Dean groans. Heat pools in his stomach and travels down. There’s so many things he wants to do. He wants to press Cas down to the mattress and have his way with him. He wants Cas to return the favor, those hands pinning him down so that he can’t hardly move. He wants to pull Cas close to him, to have their heartbeats sync into one. 

He settles for wrapping his hand around the back of Cas’s neck and pulling him close enough to feel the warm puffs of breath over his lips. Their noses bump as Cas pushes against him, lips coming close but never quite touching. It’s maddening, enough to make Dean whimper as Cas’s hand runs up and down his side. 

“Cas,” Dean groans, tangling their legs together. “Cas, please.”

“Whatever you want Dean,” Cas murmurs, lips brushing against Dean’s as he speaks. “Anything that you want.”

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

The sheets are sticky and damp under Castiel’s body as he lays on his side in Dean’s bed. 

He would be more disgusted by this if he could muster up the strength. However, that disgust remains out of reach as Castiel cannot muster up the energy to particularly care. 

His skin prickles against the cool air of the bunker. The blankets are tangled somewhere by his feet but, much like the dampness of the sheets, Castiel cannot muster up the strength to pull the coverings over his body. 

His body. Not even during his brief experiment with humanity has he ever been this aware of the body which he inhabits. This body, which is male, approximately six feet tall, and would be considered in its prime. All six feet of his skin tremble as Dean rakes his eyes down his body, from his flushed forehead, down to where his toes curl in the wrinkles of the sheets. 

Mere inches separate them as they lay facing each other. The silence between them seems a sacred thing, their touches like benedictions. Castiel finds that he cannot stop brushing his fingers over the most innocuous places of Dean’s body: the dip of his clavicle, the hollow of his knee, the soft flesh just underneath his navel. Dean blinks slowly, lips parted, as Castiel continues to explore. 

Dean’s hands are not idle in this time. He too makes his explorations, the backs of his fingers running over Castiel’s ribs, down his flanks. Castiel shivers, his eyes closing at the presumptuous touch. 

For so long he has been in human form but this--He thinks he might finally understand, at least in part, the whole of humanity. 

Dean’s eyes are heavy, purposeful. He licks his lips but keeps his stare focused squarely on Castiel’s face. Castiel blinks. This here, this charged silence, is just another form of intimacy, another to which Castiel thinks he could become accustomed. 

“What you said,” Dean mutters, his voice lower and gruffer than usual. Castiel hides the beginnings of a smile in the meat of his arm. He had something to do with that. 

Dean stares at him. “I have said many things,” Castiel reminds him. He cannot always follow the convoluted twists of human thought. 

Dean rolls his eyes, softening the gesture with a gentle tug of the hair at Castiel’s crown. “When you said that you had hundreds of failures.” 

Castiel remembers the conversation. Himself, trapped in a child’s body, with darkness closing in around him. Dean’s hands, desperately trying to hold on. Knowing that he was slipping away and feeling the need to make one final confession, one final apology. 

“You know that’s not how I feel, right?” Dean’s fingers press firmly at the base of his skull, anchoring him to the conversation. 

Castiel closes his eyes. His body is already bare to Dean but he was unaware that Dean could also parse him down to his Grace. “Cas, look at me.” 

Unable to refuse Dean anything, Castiel opens his eyes. Dean’s eyes are earnest and sincere and it’s almost more than he can take. He draws in a shaky breath, pressing back against the pressure of Dean’s fingers. “You know…” Dean smiles, disbelieving. “You know that I’ve been so fucking gone on you for so long.” 

Castiel’s borrowed heart thuds heavily in his chest. 

Dean presses his lips to Castiel’s forehead and Castiel does him the favor of pretending that he cannot feel how his body shakes. 

He knows that the words Dean has just said to him are a precious gift and that he should reciprocate. The problem is, there are not enough words in English, Hebrew, or Enochian to encompass what he feels. He does not think that he is being too self-important to say that all the trite human entertainment could not begin to understand the depth of his emotion. 

“I…” he starts, before winding his arm around Dean’s waist. “I feel that Hester said it best.”

 _From the moment Castiel laid a hand on you in Hell, he was lost_. 

Dean’s eyes go hazy as he remembers before he stiffens and looks at Castiel with a measure of worry. “I hate to tell you, but I don’t think she said that as a compliment.” 

He looks suddenly uncomfortable and Castiel hooks his leg over Dean’s. It’s a flimsy attempt to calm him but the increased skin to skin contact does seem to soothe him. “No, I don’t imagine that she did,” Castiel acknowledges. “But regardless, there was truth in her words. From that moment…” Castiel thumbs over the soft skin just underneath Dean’s eye. “I would storm the gates of Heaven and Hell if you asked me to, Dean Winchester.”

Dean’s face breaks into a smile as he huffs out a laugh. He pulls Castiel close to him, so their sweat-tacky skin sticks together. It’s not an entirely unpleasant sensation. “You know, most people just buy flowers or something,” Dean mumbles into the crook of his neck. 

Castiel runs his hands down Dean’s spine. The ensuing shiver travels from Dean’s body to his and Castiel holds him tighter. He never wants to stop this. He resents the fact that in a few hours he will required to leave the confines of this bed and clothe himself. 

“You have never once craved flowers, in your entire life,” Castiel tells Dean. Dean’s mouth splits in a smile. Castiel can feel it against his skin. 

Still, Dean’s comments do beg the question of gratitude, of what is owed and given. Castiel was not lying. There is very little that he would scruple to do, were Dean to ask it of him. This sentiment cannot be put into words so Castiel settles for expressing it through actions. His hands, smoothing over Dean’s skin, resting over the fragile beat of his heart. His lips, on Dean’s skin, tongue darting out to taste the salt on his skin. 

And it might be trite but Castiel still says it, like a secret, whispered in the space between them. 

“I love you.” 

Dean chokes and Castiel has just enough time to worry that this might not have been the proper thing to say, before Dean has rolled them over, his body pressing Castiel’s down. Castiel tries to grab hold of Dean but Dean moves like a dervish, his hand holding Castiel’s jaw still as he presses frantic kisses over his face. It’s only Castiel’s amplified senses that allow him to make out Dean’s words, whispered in hectic pants against his skin. 

“Love you, love you, _fuck, Cas_ , love you so much…”

Castiel holds onto Dean, the same way that sailors cling to lifeboats in the midst of a stormy sea. Dean doesn’t seem satisfied until he’s mapped out every inch of Castiel’s skin, even though it should all be familiar to him by now. Castiel cannot bring himself to mind. 

“Love you,” Castiel says, feeling the shape of the words in his mouth. He decides that he likes the way they feel, the way they taste. The way they make Dean’s eyes go soft, the sudden jump to Dean’s pulse as he says them. “A hundred failures,” Castiel murmurs, tracing their conversation back to the beginning. Above him, Dean pauses in tracing the outline of his lips. “Perhaps a hundred failures was the price I had to pay, to be allowed this.” 

And there are certain fallacies in his logic: other people were hurt by his failures, the whole of Heaven was almost shattered by his innumerable failures, but for the moment, Dean kisses him and Castiel thinks that perhaps, he is allowed this one small measure of peace. 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

Several minutes later, Dean will snicker and Castiel will ask him what he finds so humorous. 

Dean will answer, trying to smother his laughter behind his hand, “I still can’t believe that you let Crowley pick you up and carry you around. Uncle Crowley.” 

Too content to be truly offended, Castiel will nonetheless roll over to present his back to Dean. He will discover too late that this is a tactical error, as it allows Dean uninhibited access to a wide swath of skin. 

“Yes, well,” Castiel gasps, arching his back as Dean sinks his teeth into the meat of his shoulder. “You sang me a lullaby.” 

Dean hums around his skin, tongue chasing away the imprints of his teeth. “I’ll sing you a damn lullaby every night, if that’s what you want.” 

Castiel hears the unspoken question in the offer. _Please stay with me, please don’t let this be just for tonight, please, stay_ \--He’s felt the deepest wishes of Dean’s soul and foremost was the simple request: _Please don’t leave me_. 

Castiel hums, reaches over his shoulder to cup the curve of Dean’s skull in his palm. “You won’t be able to carry me around the room, but yes, a lullaby every night sounds plausible.” 

Dean kisses the curve of Castiel’s shoulder, pulling his body backwards so that they’re pressed together, back to chest. Castiel relaxes into Dean’s hold, thinks about the paths they trod to get to this point. Who knew that he would ever feel grateful to a witch? 

Dean’s arm is a warm weight on his waist, pulling him closer. His breaths puff warm on Castiel’s back, deepening as he starts to relax into sleep. However, Castiel can still feel the rumble of Dean’s chest into his. The longer he listens, the clearer everything becomes. 

_You have found her, now go and get her_  
_Remember to let her into your heart_  
_Then you can start to make it better_. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for hanging on with me til the (not so) bitter end! 
> 
> Also, I know that the tenses are all over the place in the end. We'll say that it's a stylistic choice and leave it at that.


End file.
